The Hogwarts Games
by Rowena Lexicon
Summary: The magic, settings and characters of Harry Potter and the plotline and concept of the Hunger Games, combined in a way no-one's seen before! There was never a prophecy, and Voldemort crushed the Order, Ministry and the Wizarding World.
1. Chapter 1

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Marietta's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course she did. This is the day of the reaping.

I prop myself up on one elbow. There's enough light in the Dormitory to see them. My little sister, Marietta, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother's body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten down. Marietta's face is fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as it was before I cursed "Sneak" over it in spots. My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.

Sitting at Marietta's knees, guarding her, is the world's ugliest cat. Mashed-in face, bandy-legged, eyes the colour of mustard. Marietta named him Crookshanks. He hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I still don't know what possessed me to buy him. Everyone in Hogwarts must have a regulation animal, but nowadays I wish I'd bought an owl. He is a bit useful though. It turns out he's a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Crookshanks the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots. Supple dragon hide that has melded to my feet. I pull on trousers, a shirt, hunting robes and tie my bushy brown hair up into a plait. Then I grab my wand.

Our part of Dormitory 12 is usually crawling with Obliviators heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Wizards and Witches with hunched shoulders, bruises, and premature lines on their sunken faces. But today the corridors are empty. Beds are segregated with drawn curtains. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.

Our beds are almost at the edge of the Dormitory. I only have to pass a few beds to reach the corridors, and it's only a few flights of stairs and I'm outside.

I have to run for a while, but soon enough I'm in the scruffy, out of use Quidditch field. Separating the field from the Forbidden Forest is a high chain link fence topped with barbed-wire loops. In theory, the magic's supposed to be turned on twenty-four hours a day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods- werewolves, centaurs, thestrals-that used to threaten our castle. But since we're only lucky enough to get two or three hours of magic in the evenings, it's usually safe to touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for the magical hum that means the fence is protected. Right now, it's silent as a stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on my belly and slide under a two-foot stretch that's been loose for years. There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this one is so far from the castle that I almost always enter the forest here.

As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a muggle bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log. Magic protection or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out of Hogwarts. Inside the forest they roam freely, and there are added concerns like unsuspecting muggles, that abandoned Ford Anglia and no real path to follow. But there's also food if you know how to find it. My father, James, knew, and he taught me some ways before he was killed by Minister for Magic, Lord Voldemort. I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.

Even though trespassing in the Forest is illegal and poaching carries the severest of penalties, more people would risk it if we still had magic. But most are not bold enough to venture out with just a knife. My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the forest, carefully wrapped in waterproof covers. This muggle technology repulses some people, but most have accepted the fact that we need to learn new ways to survive. My father could have made good money selling his bows, but if the officials found out he would have been publically executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the Death Eaters turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they're as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is. In fact, they're among our best customers. But the idea that someone might be arming Dormitory 12 would never have been allowed.

In the autumn, a few brave souls sneak into the forest to harvest apples. But always in sight of the Quidditch field. Always close enough to run back to the safety of Hogwarts if trouble arises. "Dormitory 12. Where you can starve to death in safety," I mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.

When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the things I would blurt out about Dormitory 12, about the people who rule over the Wizarding population of our country. The Ministry of Magic, and the lucky few who get to live outside the castle that was once a school. Hogwarts. Eventually I understood this would only lead us to more trouble. So I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that no-one could ever read my thoughts. Do my work quietly in Transfiguration and Potions classes. Make only polite small talk in the Great Hall. Discuss little more than trades on the third floor, which is where the black market is, and that is where I make most of my money. Even in our part of the Dormitory, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reaping, or food and magic shortages, or the Hogwarts Games. Marietta might begin to repeat my words, and then where would we be?

In the forest waits the only person with whom I can be myself. Oliver. I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge overlooking a ditch, where a rusty Ford Anglia lies. A thicket of berries protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings a smile. Oliver says I never smile except in the forest.

"Hey, Mione," says Oliver. My real name is Hermione, but when I first told him, I barely whispered it. So he thought I'd said Mione. It stuck.

"Look what I shot." Oliver holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh. It's real, house elf made bread, not the flat, dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my hands, pull out the arrow, and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions.

"Mm, still warm," I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it. "What did it cost you?"

"Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning," says Oliver, "Even wished me luck."

"Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" I say, not even bothering to roll my eyes.

"I almost forgot!" says Oliver suddenly, falling into a Ministry of Magic accent as he mimics Dolores Umbridge, the maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year to read out names at the reaping, "Happy Hogwarts Games!" He plucks a few blackberries from the bushes around us. "And may the odds-" He tosses a berry in a high arc towards me.

I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my tongue. "-be _ever_ in your favour!" I finish with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your wits. Besides, the Ministry of Magic accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it.

I watch as Oliver pulls his knife and slices the bread. He could be my brother. His hair, short as it is, is thick, and almost precisely the same shade of brown as mine. He is burly and well-built, but his eyes are also brown, and are very similar to mine. But we're not related, at least not closely.

My mother and sister don't resemble me though. My mother has red hair-not ginger, it's a shade of red that no dye could ever quite replicate, and her eyes are emerald green. And Marietta's dark brown hair is as curly as mine is bushy, but in a different, and infinitely more attractive way. And they're different. Different because the way they look is...rich.

And it's true, kind of. My mother's parents were healers at St. Mungo's, and they ran an apothecary shop inside Hogwarts. Since barely anyone can afford the floo network fees to take them to St. Mungo's, they began healing here in the castle. My father got to know my mother because on his hunts he would sometimes collect medicinal herbs and sell them to her shop to be brewed into remedies. She must have really loved him, to leave the shop to join him in a small corner of the dormitory, where she once had one of the five remaining four poster beds. Her parents disowned her, of course. I try to remember that when all I see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones. I try to forgive her for my father's sake. But to be honest, I'm not the forgiving type.

"We could do it, you know," Oliver says quietly, jerking me out of my thoughts.

"What?" I ask.

"Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it," says Oliver.

I don't know how to respond. The idea is so preposterous.

"If we didn't have so many kids," he adds quickly.

They're not our kids, of course. But they might as well be. Oliver's two little brothers and a sister. Marietta. And you may as well throw in our mothers as well, because how would they live without us? Who would fill those mouths that are always asking for more? Even when we hunt, there are still nights when we go to bed with our stomachs rumbling. Still nights when our families go hungry.

"I never want to have kids," I say.

"I might. If I didn't live here," says Oliver.

"But you do," I say, irritated.

"Forget it," he snaps back.

The conversation feels all wrong. Leave? How could I leave Marietta, who is the only person in the world I'm certain I love? And Oliver is devoted to his family. We can't leave, so why bother talking about it? And even if we did...Even if we did...Where is all this stuff about us having kids coming from? There's never been anything romantic between Oliver and me. When we met, I was just a skinny twelve year old, and although he was only two years older, he used to be a keeper-before Quidditch was banned-and it was evident in his build, so much so that he already looked like a man. It took a long time for us to even become friends, to begin helping each other in the hunt, to work together.

Besides, if he wants kids, Oliver Wood will not have any trouble finding a wife. He's good-looking, he's strong and muscled, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way the girls whisper about him when he walks by in school that they want him. It makes me jealous, but not in the way people would think. Good hunting partners-and friends-are hard to come by these days.

"What do you want to do?" I ask. We can use what little magic we have to catch some rare meat, or we can fish, hunt and gather the muggle way.

"Let's fish at the lake. We can enchant the nets and go and gather in the forest. Get something nice for tonight," he says.

Tonight. After the reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate. And a lot of people do, out of relief that their children have been spared for another year. But at least two families will pull their curtain around their beds, although we'll still be able to hear them sobbing into their pillows. They'll have to figure out how to survive the painful weeks to come.

We do well. The predators ignore us on a day when easier, tastier prey abounds. By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a large quantity of strawberries. I found a patch a few years ago, but Oliver had the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep the animals away.

On the way home, we go to the third floor market place, in a room that is rumoured to be the home of an ancient relic: The Mirror of Erised. No-one's ever seen it though. Most businesses are closed by this time on reaping day, but the black market's still fairly busy. We trade six of our fish for delights such as pumpkin pasties, Mrs Weasley's rock cakes, and a flask of Butterbeer. Mrs Weasley also takes half of the greens off our hands in exchange for some good meat.

When we finish our business at the market, we go to the Head of House, Professor McGonagall, and sell half the strawberries. We charge a relatively high price, but she can afford it. Professor McGonagall's daughter, Penelope, opens the door to the office. Penelope's in my year at school. Being the Head of House's daughter, you'd expect her to be a snob, but she's alright. She just keeps to herself. Like me. Since neither of us really has a group of friends, we seem to end up together a lot at school. Eating lunch, sitting next to each other while announcements are made, partnering for lessons. We rarely talk, which suits us both just fine.

Today, her drab school robes have been replaced with an expensive white dress, and her long, curly blonde hair is done up with a blue and red ribbon. Ravenclaw-Gryffindor colours. These are her reaping clothes.

"Pretty dress," says Oliver.

Penelope shoots him a look, trying to see if it's a genuine compliment or if he's just being ironic. It _is _a pretty dress, but she would never be wearing ordinarily. She presses her lips together, then smiles. "Well, if I end up going to the Ministry of Magic, I want to look nice, don't I?"

Now it's Oliver's turn to be confused. Does she mean it? Or is she messing with him? I'm guessing the second.

"You won't be going to the Ministry," says Oliver coolly. His eyes land on a small circular pin that adorns her dress. Real gold. Beautifully crafted. It could keep a family alive for months. "What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old."

"That's not her fault," I say.

"No, it's no-one's fault. Just the way it is," says Oliver.

Penelope's face has become closed off. She puts the galleons for the berries in my hand. "Good luck, Hermione."

"You, too," I say, and the door closes.

We walk towards the Dorm in silence. I don't like that Oliver took a dig at Penny, but he's right, of course. The reaping system is unfair, with the poorest getting the worst of it. You become eligible for reaping the day you turn twelve. That year, your name is entered once. At thirteen, twice. And so on and so on until you reach the age of eighteen, the final year of eligibility, when your name goes into the pool seven times. That's true for every citizen in all twelve dormitories in the castle that is our only home and community. Hogwarts.

But here's the catch. Say you're poor and starving, with no magic, as we were. You can opt to add your name more times in exchange for magic. The magic we get is a pitiful amount, barely enough for a month. But you can do this for each member of your family. So, at the age of twelve, I had my name entered four times. Once because I had to, and three times for magic for myself, Marietta and my mother. In fact, every year I have needed to do this. And the entries are cumulative. So now, at the age of sixteen, my name will be in the reaping twenty times. Oliver, who is eighteen and has been either helping or single-handedly feeding a family of five for seven years, will have his name in forty-two times.

You can see why someone like Penelope, who has never needed magic, can set him off. The chance of her name being drawn is very slim compared to those of us in need of any magic we can scrape together. You see, after Lord Voldemort won the war, he took away our magic. No-one knows how, or even why, seeing as he valued the status of Witch or Wizard above anything else. Now, we live on the barest form of our rudimentary powers. We each have a wand, which is at most times useless, until something like the reaping comes along and a little magic is restored into these wands. No longer does the wand choose the wizard-these are regulatory sticks, wood with no magical core, because it must be Voldemort who keeps the power; with what is rumoured to be the most powerful wand in the Wizarding world. But anyway, the chances of Penny's name being drawn are slim. Not impossible, but slim. And even though the rules were set up by the Ministry of Magic, not the Houses, certainly not the Heads of Houses, it's hard not to resent those who don't have to sign up for magic. It's not like Penelope's family has unlimited magic. But they have enough. More than us, anyway.

Oliver knows his anger at Penny is misdirected. On other days, deep in the Forest, I've listened to him rant about how the magic rations are just another tool to create misery at Hogwarts. "It's to the Ministry's advantage to have us all divided among ourselves," he says, in response to the further segregation of houses and Wizarding families.

The houses. Once there were only four, while nowadays there are twelve. Still based upon the same template. All split into their own Dormitories. What once was a simple school tradition has evolved into a gruesome separation of magical folk. We're barely permitted to talk to members of other Dormitories/Houses.

As we walk, I glance over at Oliver's face, still smouldering underneath his stony expression. His rages seem pointless to me, although I never say so. It's not that I don't agree with him. I do. But what is good about yelling about the Ministry in the middle of the Forest? It doesn't change anything. It doesn't make things fair. It doesn't stop Voldemort's reign of terror. But I let him yell. Better he does it in the Forest than inside Hogwarts.

Oliver and I divide the food, leaving us with a fair amount each.

"See you in the square," I say.

"Wear something pretty," he says flatly.

Back in the Dormitory, I find my mother and sister are ready to go. My mother wears a fine dress, preserved from the day before her parents disowned her. Marietta is in my first reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled blouse. It's a bit big on her, but my mother has made it stay with pins. Even so, she's having trouble keeping the blouse tucked in at the back.

My mother has saved the adjoining bathroom for me. There are a few scattered around the Dormitory, but still too few for us to share easily. A tub of warm water waits for me, and I scrub off the dirt and sweat clinging to my body and wash my hair. To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own lovely dresses for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes.

"Are you sure?" I ask. I'm trying to get past rejecting offers of help from her. For a while, I was so angry, I wouldn't allow her to do anything for me. And this is something special. Her clothes from her past are very precious to her.

"Of course. Let's put your hair up, too," she says. She braids my hair before it can puff out into its usual bushiness. Then she pins it in a spiral on top of my head. I can hardly recognize myself in the cracked bathroom mirror.

"You look beautiful," says Marietta in a hushed voice.

"And nothing like myself," I say. I hug her, because I know these next few hours will be terrible for her. Her first reaping. She's about as safe as you can get, since she's only entered once. I wouldn't let her take any magic. But she's worried about me. That the unthinkable might happen.

I protect Marietta in every way I can, but I'm powerless against the reaping. The anguish I always feel when she's in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my face. I notice her blouse has pulled out of her skirt in the back again and force myself to stay calm. "Tuck your tail in, little duck," I say, smoothing the blouse back in place.

Marietta giggles and gives me a small "Quack".

"Quack yourself," I say with a light laugh. The kind only Marietta can draw out of me.

At twelve o'clock, we head for the Great Hall. Attendance is mandatory unless you're on your death bed. This evening, officials will go round the dormitories to check that this is the case. If not you'll be imprisoned.

Each House has the reaping for their Dormitory held at a different time. Dormitory 12 is first, at one. Exactly half an hour later, we are expected to have evacuated the Great Hall, to make way for Dormitory 11 and so on.

People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity for the Ministry to keep tabs on the population as well. Twelve to eighteen year olds are herded into roped areas (the tables are temporarily gone) marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the young ones, like Marietta, towards the back. Family members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another's hands. But there are others, too, who have no-one they love at stake, or who no longer care, who slip among the crowd, taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn. Odds are given on their ages, whether they're poor or rich, if they will break down and weep.

The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic, as people arrive. The Hall's quite large, but not enough to hold Gryffindor-Ravenclaw's population of about two-hundred and fifty. Latecomers are directed to the Entrance Hall, where they can watch the event from father away, but the magically enhanced voices mean that nothing is missed.

I find myself standing in a group of sixteen year old girls. We exchange terse nods, before turning to the platform at the front. There are three chairs spaced along the professor's table. There's no headmaster's chair anymore. I suppose Voldemort's our headmaster, ever since he killed Dumbledore, but he's never even visited Hogwarts, so the Heads of Houses are the more active participants in running the school. There, in the middle, is the Goblet of Fire. Or, at least, that's what it once was called. Now it's the Reaping Goblet.

In one chair is Professor McGonagall, our Head of House. She's pale and drawn, and was once in the Order of the Phoenix, but succumbed to Voldemort after he threatened her daughter. Next to her, in the middle, is Dolores Umbridge, who this year has dyed her hair bright pink to match her clothes. There's a writhing cat that was probably once white in her fluffy handbag, but some sadistic stylist has even dyed the defenceless animal the colour of candyfloss. But one seat remains empty, and when the clock strikes one, whispers are exchanged at the absence of the occupant of the last seat.

Regardless, McGonagall steps forward and begins to read a very prepared speech. It's the same every year. She talks about the history of Hogwarts. How Voldemort rose to power, and spared people who converted to his side. How _merciful_ he was. Never mind the people he ended up killing. Countless lives, lost. She talks, stiffly, about how the houses were split up, to make space for the entire Wizarding world to live in Hogwarts; together in unity. Except that that's not true. We don't speak to anyone from the other Dormitories. We don't share classes with them; we sit at other tables when we eat. Then Dumbledore and Dormitory 13 (Gryffindor-Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff) rose up to try to destroy Voldemort. But they were crushed by the Ministry, and Voldemort decided that a reminder was needed for the Wizarding World, a reminder to stop us ever stepping out of line again.

The Hogwarts Games are a simple concept. Each of the twelve Houses must simple present one girl and one boy to compete. These twenty-four children are known as Tributes. These Tributes are imprisoned in a magical arena which can be anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. The competitors must fight to the death. That's all.

And the last one standing wins.

And those...monsters at the Ministry, they treat it like a game. Like it's _fun _to watch. Like they can have feasts and banquets while children kill each other. Become murderers. But the winner-the winner becomes rich. Receive a _real _wand, with unlimited power. And get all the gold they could ever wish for.

It's been 49 years since the first Hogwarts Games, and yet Dormitory 12 has had only one victor. Rubeus Hagrid. And at this moment the man himself manages to stagger on stage. He's massive, and the rumours say he's half giant. Umbridge shies away, after her campaign against "filthy half-breeds" flopped- but not without causing more hate for them- she's done all she can to make them feel excluded and different. The chair breaks as he tries to sit down, and his bloodshot eyes are wild and feral.

Professor McGonagall looks stressed. This is shown in all the other Dormitories, live, and Hagrid is making Dormitory 12 an embarrassment. Not that we aren't already. She hastily introduces Umbridge to draw attention away from Hagrid.

Bubbly and patronizing as ever, Umbridge trots to the podium and gives her signature, "Happy Hogwarts Games! And may the odds be _ever _in your favour!"

She clears her throat as though she is about to give a speech, but Hagrid is making his hands talk to each other so she hastily says, "Ladies first!"

The flames in the Reaping Goblet turn blue, and a piece of paper is spat out. I'm desperately hoping, not me, not me, not me...

And it's not me.

It's Marietta Granger.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews on the first chapter! I really appreciate them! Please write more because it makes me feel loved- and I'm just sad like that. This chapter was harder to write because of the fact that I had no real template (it's from Ginny's POV), but it was really fun anyway. Also, a massive thank you to my lovely friends who I bombard with facebook messages so that they can give their feedback ~Rowena**

My eyes flutter open, and for a second I bask in the warm pink glow that's pouring in through the window.

And in that second, it's heaven. Curled up on Harry's chest, his hand resting in my hair. He's still asleep.

That's when it hits me. Pink glow, Harry...I sit bolt upright, panic beginning to boil in the pit of my stomach. It must be six o'clock already, and I'm still in Harry's bed, surrounded by the whole of the notoriously gossipy Dormitory 5. On any day other than Reaping Day, the time would have meant certain discovery, with Aurors milling about, getting ready for the day ahead. Luckily, I can hear the snores of Harry's parents; Melissa and Steve Potter. If they found out I was sleeping here...I leap out of the bed, looking around me for witnesses. There are none. I plant a quick kiss on Harry's unblemished forehead, before sprinting across the Dormitory towards mine and my family's beds.

Dad's still asleep when I get there, I note with relief, before I turn to Bill. Of course he's awake. Normally, I get back before his nightmares wake him up, but not today. I've been careless.

"Will you be offended if I call you a slut, Ginny?" he asks seriously, but I identify the joke through the twinkle in his eye.

I don't laugh, though.

"You've got a filthy mind, Bill. Blimey, I'm only fifteen!" I reply scathingly.

He shakes his head; I can tell he doesn't believe me.

"So, who's the lucky guy?"

I fold my arms and close my face off to further interrogation. He's not getting any information out of me. Harry and I promised to keep our relationship a secret and I'm not going back on that promise.

"Is it that Michael kid? Or Richard? You know they both fancy you!"

I have to laugh at the ridiculous- and faintly offensive- suggestions.

"For goodness' sakes, Bill, next you'll be saying that I slept with _Charlie_!" Then I clap my hands over my mouth, horrified; I realise what I've just said.

Tear spring instinctively to Bill's eyes, and I have to look away, ashamed as I am with myself for breaching the unspoken rule to never mention Charlie's name out loud.

It's been two years since Charlie died, in the 47th Hogwarts Games. The memory's still fresh- in all of our minds. A basilisk, looking him straight in the eyes, before he collapsed, no longer my annoying, untidy and way too loveable older brother...

No, I let go of any thoughts like that when they zoomed in on the corpse.

That year, with the deadly serpent on the loose, the Games didn't last very long. I don't remember who the Victor was. I tend to block out memories like that.

"I'm sorry," I mutter. I turn, just in time to see Bill shrugging, as though it's nothing. It isn't nothing. Because Bill and I still have nightmares. He has them almost every night. I have them less often, but whenever I start screaming, Harry's there, and I can bury my head in his chest and sob. Sometimes (most times, recently) he takes me over to his bed, and rocks me to sleep. That's what happened last night. _All _that happened.

And I at least owe Bill that. For him to know that I'm still hurting, too; I'm not just some slut who's sleeping with everyone for the fun of it. Because I'm not. And Harry agrees that he doesn't ever want kids in this hellhole of a world.

"It's Harry," I say, almost indecipherably.

Whatever Bill expected, it's not that. He does a double take, and sits back down on his bed.

"W-what?" he splutters.

"Harry. But we haven't had sex. I'm a virgin, OK? Don't give dad a heart attack by spreading rumours like that!"

"Harry _Potter_, though, Ginny? Blimey, you have standards, don't you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" I say, offended without quite knowing why.

"Well, he's... He's the richest guy in Dormitory 5, Ginny!"

I take an involuntary step backwards and gasp quietly. When I finally speak, my voice is seeping with unconcealed venom.

"You think THAT'S why I fell in love with him. Because he's RICH? Maybe you're that shallow, Bill, or believe me to be, but I'm not. He was there for me at a time when no-one else was-" Bill flinches at the reference to his breakdown "- and if he doesn't care that we're not...Well, we're not very financially well off, but he doesn't care, and neither do I!" I can feel the salt water trickling down my cheeks, but I quickly wipe it away. I _don't _cry.

It's true. I met Harry a few days after Charlie's death was televised. It was the day of the funeral. Halfway through the service, as the Ministry Representative began some waffle that had more to do with Voldemort than Charlie, I couldn't take it anymore so I sprinted the whole way to the Forbidden Forest and just lay there crying my eyes out. When Harry found me, he didn't make any stupid gesture like putting his arm around me- I barely knew him. Even though we were practically neighbours we'd never spoken before. When I finished crying, he took my hand and led me to a beautiful little stream- it's our meeting place now- and he sat down beside me and we took our shoes off and just let them rest in the cold water. It wasn't love at first sight- although Harry swears it was- and we were friends for about four months before...

We're sitting on the bank of the stream, a stray butterfly passing us as we talk about Charlie. It's been four months, and I've finally opened up about my brother. How he could make us all laugh without really trying. How he'd say _awful _things about the Ministry, and we'd try to keep him quiet but he never would. How he'd hog the shower each morning, and then get really dirty again when he'd go out hunting. How we used to have full bellies...Before he died and we didn't hunt anymore.

"You stopped hunting?" Harry asks and I nod, "I'll show you- if you want."

"Yes," I say. He tenses to get up, but I lay a head on his shoulder and he relaxes again.

"Not today," I murmur, as he puts his arm round me.

Being two teenagers, it wasn't long before we started snogging. Actually, I have no idea how long it was. It felt like forever we sat there, but by the time it got dark we were kissing, and that effectively changed our friendship forever. Looking back, I can't remember who started the kiss, but he had to finish it. And we made a pact, there and then, that no-one could ever know about us. Well, I've pretty much screwed that up, haven't I?

Back in the present, Bill looks a bit startled at my outburst, but he has the good grace to apologise.

"I didn't realise. Sorry, Ginny."

I flop down on my bed; I can do with a few more hours sleep before Reaping. But just as the drowsiness is beginning to overtake me, I hear the unmistakable: "Up! Up and at 'em!" that means my dad has woken up.

Dad never wanted to be an Auror. No way. But you can't help it when you're sorted into Gryffindor- or Dormitory 5, as it's more commonly known. Just like you can't help being a Herbologist if you're in Dormitory 10 (Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw), or a Healer if you're in Dormitory 8 (Ravenclaw-Slytherin). He wanted to work with Muggles. He's always been fascinated by them, but when Voldemort took over you had to learn to hide stuff like that. He had to trash the enchanted Ford Anglia in the Forbidden Forest or someone would have found out and he would have been killed. Publicly.

Bill says he worried mum to an early grave. Charlie said he never loved her. But love isn't really taken into account in the new scheme of things. You can only marry within your house, and then you have kids and hope that they'll get sorted into the same house when they turn eleven. I've heard about families who had their sons or daughters taken away because they turned out to be a Slytherin or Hufflepuff. You can still hear some of them crying at night. Because, for some reason, we never talk to the other houses. And they're no exception.

And, for some reason, we never wonder why.

Anyway, since mum died, I've become the only girl in our family, so I'm left alone to get ready. I don't have any friends in Dormitory 5. None. So it's up to me to get myself halfway presentable each day.

I don't understand why we're supposed to dress up for the Reaping, as though it's a celebration. I suppose it's meant to be. A celebration for the murder and destruction Voldemort caused in his rise to power. Except they don't quite phrase it that way.

I don't have many nice clothes. Of all the houses, we're one of the ones that the Ministry hates the most. Slytherin, of course, is the favourite. But they hate Gryffindor, the most out of all the houses. Somehow, though, Dormitory 5 is better off than some of the other Dorms. 12 and 11 are the worst off, 7 and we aren't much better off. I pick a pastel green dress out of my wardrobe though, and it fits perfectly when I try it on. I know instinctively that it was mum's. There's a pair of silver heels as well. A thought hits me as I try them on.

"Dad?" I ask tentatively. He turns to me and smiles.

"Don't you look beautiful!"

I grin in response.

"Thanks, dad. But I have to ask, was this dress mum's?"

He hesitates. Then speaks too quickly to answer: "Yes."

"Why is the outfit in the Slytherin colours, then?" Green dress, silver shoes; every Gryffindor must wear red and gold for the Reaping. And these are reaping clothes, I know it.

"It's complicated," my dad says finally; heavily, like he doesn't want to think about it, much less talk about the whole thing.

But this means I can't wear the dress, pretty as it is. I wonder if I could use up some of my magic to make it red, but that would be a waste of magic. Besides, red doesn't suit me. It makes me look like a cherry tomato, if I'm totally honest. Maybe gold, then?

No. It would be selfish, using what little magic we have for such a frivolous reason. I rummage through the wardrobe until I find a gaudy red and gold striped dress, which I put on with distaste. I try to find some shoes, as I can't wear the silver ones now, and I find some burgundy flats that will have to do. I look in the mirror, and I look horrible. Bill has to stifle a laugh when he sees me. I try to do something with my hair, but it's no use. I rummage through the wardrobe once more, trying to find a shirt and skirt combo, and that's when I see it. A bag of clothes, so obviously Slytherin, green and silver.

I slam the wardrobe door shut before I can dwell on it. Not caring about my outfit anymore, I pace up and down, waiting for it to be Reaping time.

I re-brush my hair, reapply my make-up, but avoid going anywhere near the wardrobe. I have no idea what the bag of clothes could mean, but if dad's never told us about them before then I know it's not good.

A piece of paper flutters towards me as I spiral my hair into a bun once more. Pinning the hair back with a clasp, I pick up the thick, expensive looking parchment, ripped into a small yellowish piece. I unfold it, and recognise Harry's handwriting immediately:

_I love you. Good luck today, I'll meet you in the Forest when it's over._

_- Harry._

No matter how many times he says it, I can never quite comprehend that he loves me. I'm just not _loveable_. I've got no friends, never had a boyfriend before Harry. OK, Michael Corner snogged me once, but his breath smelt of onions, and he had wandering hands. Not _ever _repeating that experience.

I often ask Harry why. I'm not pretty, popular, rich, any of the things you look for in a girl. He always replies with the same three words:

"You complete me."

You know, I'm in danger of becoming a complete sap. Ugh. I need to stop all this lovey-dovey romantic crap. It's not me. Not usually, anyway.

Our reaping is at half seven in the evening, so I've got some time to kill. I decide to make some amendments to my dress.

I cut out the layers of colour and split them into strips of gold and strips of red. I sew the gold to together with quick, nimble fingers and try to get the layers just right. It's hard, because all I have is a thread and needle, but I manage to get the measurements about right. About an hour and several pricked fingers later, I hold up a strapless, layered gold top, made out of the material that seemed so bright and gaudy before, but now it seems to radiate light and seems silky and soft.

I clutch the red strips and wonder what I can do with them. Making a layered skirt would look stupid, but with such thin strips anything else seems impossible. Finally, I cut a tiny ribbon off and tie it in my hair. That's all I can think of doing.

Suddenly, a stroke of inspiration hits me and I run to my chest of drawers. I grab my black leggings and a black skirt, and run back to the bathroom, where I've been carrying out my sewing for want of privacy. I cut the leggings so that I can tie them round my waist, and add a piece of red fabric around that to make a black and red belt. Then I hem the tight fitting skirt with some more red. It's not much, but it'll have to do, I think, examining my reflection in the mirror. The skirt now reaches down to my knees, and I quickly decide to pair it with some tights. The top looks really nice, and although the red _still _doesn't really compliment me, it looks alright overall.

That's before I think about shoes. I look once more at the hideous burgundy flats and disregard them immediately. The silver shoes won't go with the gold top and I wouldn't wear them anyway. I have my hunting boots, brown and clunky, and my school shoes...horrible.

I sigh and put the burgundy shoes back on. Nothing else for it, I think sadly. And the outfit looked so nice.

A hammering on the door jerks me back to my senses.

"Ginny! We have to go! Everyone else has left already!"

It's Bill. I quickly glance at the window and I'm shocked to see that it's already getting dark. I've been so caught up in sewing that I've completely lost track of time.

It's a good thing I decided on the flats, I think, as we sprint towards the Great Hall. This would have been impossible in heels. By the time we get there, it hasn't started, but I'm ushered quickly into place so that they can get on with the proceedings. Dolores Umbridge stands at the front, her toad-like face making me feel physically sick. She is the mentor for both us and Dormitory 12. I suppose we're the most hated houses. Otherwise they'd send us someone better.

They start, as is custom, by showing us the Tributes from the other Dormitories.

The first faces that hover before us in a projection from Umbridge's are thin and unhealthy, the tributes from Dormitory 12. I'm too nervous to register anything.

I calm my breathing down in time to concentrate on some of the other tributes. A small girl named Luna from Dormitory 11, a pudgy boy- Neville, I think- from 10. Dean and Cho are from Ravenclaw-Slytherin, Dormitory 8, and a horrible, large bully called Goyle from Dormitory 6.

"Welcome, welcome," trills Umbridge after the projections are finished. "As you all know, we are here because..."

I tune out again, not out of nervousness, but this time out of boredom. Umbridge's voice alone is enough to send anyone to sleep, but combined with the tedious and blatantly untrue version of how Voldemort rose to power gets tiresome very, _very _quickly.

I catch Harry's eye across the room. His name is only in there five or six times, but I still worry. Mine...well, mine is a different matter. I didn't want to count, but I've used up the entire supply of magic that I'm allowed.

"Ladies first!"

My fingernails dig into my palms as I clench my hand into fists. I feel from the searing pain that I'm drawing blood but I don't care. I can only see Umbridge's pudgy hand waiting for the Reaping Goblet to spit out a name. I turn to the back of the hall and see that dad and Bill have their fingers crossed. Bill's too old, now, but he knows how it feels; as only a few years ago this was him. I remember two years ago; Charlie's last year being entered into the Reaping. He was about to get out of the whole process.

The flames turn red. I choke back bile that builds up in my mouth. Because somehow I know the name before it's read out.

"Ginevra Weasley."

My legs shake hopelessly as I walk towards Umbridge. My eyes fill with tears. I can't look at dad. Because now he'll have lost two of his children. I'm not going to win. I'm going to die and they'll have to deal with the grief alone. I can't believe that a mere half an hour ago I was focused on making a pretty outfit. How inconsequential that seems now.

It's then that the tears overflow. I don't make a sound. I can't do that to Bill. Or dad. Or Harry.

I look back at Harry, and see that he's staring back, with a burning intensity that only makes me cry more.

I try to stop the tears. I don't cry. I _won't. _

I try to look confident, strong, as I walk towards Dolores. She has a sickeningly sweet smile pasted on her face as she congratulates me, and I stand, legs still shaking, as she begins to read out another speech.

"It is a great honour for any young witch or wizard to become a Tribute, but this year the sister of Charlie Weasley has been chosen! The courageous young man who reached the top 10 to year before last! I'm sure he would be proud, Ginevra, if he could see you now!"

I feel an urge to be sick. Proud? I can only stare at Umbridge and try to comprehend the lengths to which the Ministry has gone to become just like Voldemort. Unfeeling. Evil.

I try very hard not to listen to the rest of her ramble, but snippets break through to my disjointed thoughts.

"...I'm sure you won't go down without a fight!"

"...A unique position which I'm sure many of you will find enviable!"

"...The chance to go to the Ministry itself!"

Finally, she stops. Trying to think of another sickeningly ignorant thing to say, she seems to realise she's run out.

"Well, enough of that!" she says, "On to the boys! I'm sure we'll have another courageous young Tribute that will make Dormitory proud!"

Again, the flames turn red.

Not Harry, not Harry, I think desperately.

I only then realise how much I value his life above my own. Because if Harry were to be chosen, I would kill myself for him to win. I would. It won't be him, but I would do it.

It won't be him. Please don't be him.

It's not him.

"Gary Storm."

A boy I don't know. I never will know, probably. Because I'll have to kill him. That's what I think, before I hear the ring of:

"I volunteer!"

Harry.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This chapter is a bit weird because you have to remember that we're skipping backwards in time again. Now we're just after Marietta's name has been called. Basically, we're back to the end of chapter one. This skipping around times will stop soon but right now it's necessary so...enjoy, anyway! Thanks for all your reviews and favourites, I really appreciate them!**

I try to remember how to breathe, as her name bounces around the inside of my skull. Marietta. _My _Marietta.

There must have been some mistake. This can't be happening. Marietta was one slip of paper in hundreds! Her chances of being chosen were so remote...I'd made sure of it! Hadn't I done everything? Taken the magic, refused to let her do the same? One slip. One slip in hundreds. The odds had been entirely in her favour. But it hadn't mattered.

Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily, as they always do whenever a twelve-year-old gets chosen, because no-one thinks this is fair. And then I see her, the blood drained from her face, hands clenched in fists at her sides, walking with stiffs, small steps up towards Umbridge, passing me, and I see the back of her blouse has become untucked and hangs out over her skirt. It's this detail, the untucked blouse forming a ducks tail that brings me back to myself.

"Marietta!" the strangled cry comes out of my throat, and my muscles begin to move again. "MARIETTA!"

I run through the gaggle of kids, running towards my sister, who I'm not about to let go of now. Not after everything.

I reach her before she can make the unbreakable vow. I push her behind me, protectively shielding her from the Death Eaters beginning to swarm around us.

"I volunteer!" I gasp, "I volunteer as Tribute!"

Dormitory 12 hasn't had a volunteer in decades, so there's a fair amount of confusion. It's funny, considering we're Gryffindor's. Well, half Gryffindor, half Ravenclaw, but still. The protocol for a volunteer has become rusty, but I can just about remember the basis. After a Tribute has been chosen, an eligible girl or boy can volunteer in their place. In some Houses, being a Tribute is considered an honour, and there are volunteers almost every year. But here, in Dormitory 12, where the word "tribute" is almost the same as the word "corpse", we don't get many volunteers.

"Um, lovely!" says Umbridge. "But, well, procedure...er, does anyone know...?"

McGonagall stands up, a fire I've never seen burning in her eyes. I can see a faint trace of sadness; for her favourite student going to die. "What does it matter?" she says, "What does it matter about procedure? We all know the rules. Hermione is Tribute now. Let her."

"No! NO! HERMIONE!" Marietta is struggling frantically against the vice-like grip of head Death Eater Lucius Malfoy. She keeps screaming hysterically as he drags her back to our mother.

"It's OK, Marietta," I say, tears stinging my eyes. But I won't let them fall. Everyone in Hogwarts will see replays of this moment. I have to look strong. I have to _be _strong.

My mother looks blank, empty. It's almost like...When dad died. She doesn't acknowledge Marietta, and it's Oliver who pulls her back into the crowd.

"Hermione," he says, and that's all it takes to calm me down. I straighten up, and walk defiantly towards the front of the room.

"Well, bravo!" gushes Umbridge. "Why, this is the spirit of the Games! What's your name, dear?"

"Hermione Granger."

"And that was your sister, was it? I suppose you didn't want her stealing all the glory, did you? Well, everyone- this _is _an exciting turn of events! Shall we give Hermione here a round of applause?"

No-one claps. All they do is raise their wands, slowly, but eventually everyone in the district has their wand in the air. In silence. It's a sign of respect, of hope and trust. Trust that I could win. It's a beautiful display.

It means saying goodbye to someone you love.

Luckily, before I can start crying, Hagrid stumbles over to me.

"Look 'ere! Miss 'Mione G-Granger, goin' up 'gainst...'gainst everyone! I like 'er. Prob'ly won' win, though."

He staggers forward towards the crowd.

"She's go' more guts than the lot of yer. Mor'en any o' you." I can barely understand what he's saying, but it's directed towards the Ministry, and it's dangerous.

Just as he opens his mouth to say more, though, the giant of a man plummets off the stage and into the terrified audience.

I catch Oliver's eyes across the hall, and I swallow back my tears for the time being. Taking advantage of the preoccupation of the Dormitory, I stare at the window where the Forbidden Forest is. Where Oliver said we could have run away. But if we had, who would have volunteered in Marietta's place? I made the right choice; I'm sure of it.

As some Healers from Dormitory 8 (Ravenclaw- Slytherin) come to take Hagrid away, Umbridge attempts to salvage the situation.

"What an exciting day already!" Umbridge allows herself a congratulatory smile; I can see that she's already thinking of the publicity this stunt will get her, "But the day isn't over yet! It's time to pick our male Tribute!"

She indicates the Reaping Goblet, which spits out another piece of parchment into her waiting hand. Before I even have time to hope for Oliver's safety, she's read out the name.

"Ronald Snape!"

No. _No. _Anyone but him. Anyone.

Because I will forever be in debt of Ron Snape.

I still remember it, like it was yesterday.

Dad was dead. Out on duty, as an Obliviator, he was erasing a Muggle's memory when the criminal who had caused the damage had come back. And cast the killing curse.

I remember the letter we got. Processed, unoriginal, a copy of thousands of letters that we'd never been unlucky enough to receive. Until that night when I was eleven. Marietta was seven.

We had a month of money. Then my mother was supposed to get a job. Except she didn't. We thought it would pass. We thought...

"_Mummy? Mummy, I'm hungry," Marietta has tears coming from her eyes. Her cheeks are hollow, her bones are easily visible. _

_Lily Granger, my mother, sits- unresponsive, blank eyes dead and staring. Like they have been for the past five months. _

"_Mummy!" Marietta has tears running down her cheeks, and still her mother won't turn. Won't react._

"_I'll get you something to eat, Marietta," I say through my own tears. I try to be reassuring. I try._

_Three hours later, freezing rain plummeting through the sky, I trudge through the mud, a bundle of herbs in my shaking arms. Trying to get back into the castle. Just as I reach the doors, I crumple; spilling the herbs that no-one in their right mind will buy now. _

_The thought of having nothing to bring Marietta, nothing to help us survive, it's incomprehensible. I can't even find the energy to stand up, so I crawl; sopping wet and dripping mud, through the corridors of the castle._

_In Hogwarts the Dormitories are set up in sectors. There's the Dormitory itself, where everyone sleeps together in one massive room; everyone in that house, that is. Then there are the bathrooms that adjoin the Dorms. And then there are the businesses. The lucky people, who avoided being Obliviators. Who set up a business to keep our House afloat. The bakery, butcher; some of them are even rich enough to employ House Elves in the kitchens. There are even dress shops and shoe shops, for the amazingly rich. I normally don't pass them on my way to the Dormitory, but today, for some reason, I take the detour, letting the delicious scent of baked bread and raw meat wash over me. I don't know how long I sit there, but it can't have been too long before the greasy hair and hooked nose of Severus Snape show up. His words are soft, deadly, as he tells me to leave. Now. Before he calls the Death Eaters. Something about the way he says it scares me, and I begin to run away. That's before I see the contrasting red hair and freckles of his son, Ron. Our eyes lock, and it's several seconds before either of us can look away. _

_Snape storms back into the bakery, and sees that Ron has now burnt the bread. His voice is never raised; never shouting. But I hear the crack of a hand across Ron's face, and I hear the words that send him out in the corridor. _

"_Throw it out the window."_

_These are the words that give me hope. Because maybe, just maybe, if I can get outside in time, I can scavenge the bread before it gets too wet. I start to get up, but before I can, I feel the first loaf of bread thump into my arms. I look up, startled, but Ron is looking determinedly in the other direction. He couldn't have meant to throw it to me. I'm just deciding that it was a mistake (and that his aim is truly awful), when the second loaf lands in my lap. _

_My eyes pop open, and I stare at my unlikely saviour in disbelief. _

_He barely acknowledges me, just walks back into the shop. I stare at the bread in my hands, dumbfounded. _

_I can't think of an explanation._

_I have seen Ron in classes, of course. He never seemed like a Ravenclaw-Gryffindor to me; maybe a Gryffindor-Hufflepuff, but I suppose the sorting hat had its reasons. He's good at Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Care For Magical Creatures, but we've never actually talked. He doesn't really have many friends, but you could blame his father for that. Severus Snape. Many say he was in Voldemort's inner circle right from the beginning; and that's how he got into Ravenclaw-Gryffindor- by his choice, as opposed to anything else. Everyone can clearly see that he's a Slytherin at heart. When gossip is scarce, some people still wonder what made him want to be in the worst of all the Dormitories when he could conceivably have been in the best. But they're still one of the richer families of the Dormitory. They have to be, to afford to have their own business. _

_And that's why I can't understand. Ron Snape, with his hated father, and reserved attitude; helping me, a poor girl who he's never spoken to in his life. Why? Why would he care about me at all, let alone that much? What could I possibly mean to him?_

_Despite all of this, I do actually have the sense to grab the bread and run all the way back home. _

_That night, Marietta and I have our best meal for three months. Cups of warm water with mint leaves in them, and the bread. Oh, the bread! Hearty, homemade bread, with raisins and nuts in it, and so tasty- once I cut off the burnt bits, that is. I even force feed our mother some of it. _

_And then, the next day at school, when I mean to thank Ron, but for some reason, never do. What he did was brilliantly brave, yet I can't find the courage to talk to him about it. But we do catch each other's eyes once or twice through the day._

It still happens now. Sometimes, during lessons, I will catch his eye, and we'll both look away, embarrassed. I still haven't thanked him.

But I will never forget. Never forget how that was the bread that got us through the weeks until spring, when I finally donned my father's hunting jacket and went into the Forbidden Forest with the intent to get more than herbs.

It was still almost a year before my mother was herself again. I've heard the stories of her and dad. James and Lily, inseparable, before their marriage and after. The best example of love in this disgusting, evil world. Nowadays, maybe I can understand why she gave up. Became unreachable, retreated into herself. I won't ever forgive her for it, but I understand.

"So, these are our brave young tributes: Ronald and Hermione! May the odds be ever in their favour! Now, shake hands you two!"

He reaches out his hand. I stare at it for a fraction of a second, and then fill the gap with my arm and shake his hand.

I can't kill him. It would be wrong to the extreme, to kill someone who kept me alive. Because he did. That bread gave us hope. It carried us through the week, it carried us through the worst and without it, I could never confidently say that I'd be alive today. Never before have I met someone who would do something that kind, with no hope for repayment, no thought for their own wellbeing.

But one of us will have to die.

Why couldn't life be simple?

They take us away. Death Eaters on both sides, with their masks that make them seem above us, when in reality Voldemort treats them just as badly. They say he's incapable of love, our almighty leader. It wouldn't surprise me.

We're escorted to adjoining rooms, getting ready for the goodbyes we know we must endure. My room is full of magical equipment I didn't know existed, but it feels deprived. Of hope, of faith. The whole room reeks of despondency.

My first visitors are my mother and Marietta. Marietta immediately leaps into my arms and I rock her there for a minute or so. My mother hangs back, unsure of herself, and her place in this situation.

"Marietta. Marietta, listen to me. You need to be strong, OK? Be my big girl, take care of yourself. You can sell things we don't need, but Oliver will share his game, I'm sure of it. You can get by without me. Mum, you need to keep going. The healing business can get you a solid income if you start charging a bit more for it."

"I don't want you to go, Hermione!" Marietta sobs into my shoulder.

"I know, but you'll be OK, little duck."

She manages a watery giggle, but I know she won't be OK. If I die, that is. And I'm going to die.

I tell Marietta that she must do well in school.

Not that it generally matters. Hogwarts is no longer a school exclusively, but we all live here, and many of us don't leave, so it's still a school as well. All the classes are they same as they once were. The teachers are the same. They're the Heads of Houses. Every one of them. There are twelve lessons: Charms, Arithmancy, Potions, Ancient Runes, Transfiguration, Herbology, History of Magic, Muggle Studies (where we learn how inferior muggles are), Care of Magical Creatures, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Divination and Astronomy. We go to lessons in groups of two Houses. We are always paired with Dormitory 5. We're also going to be paired with them for the preparation of the Games. And yet we never speak to them in lessons. Anyway, all magic is now practised theoretically. Text books are issued and we answer questions about spells we will probably never perform. But the better Marietta does in school, the more chance she has for survival. The more chance she has of getting a good job, and never having to be hungry again.

She'll make it. I'm sure she will.

I'm not so sure about myself.

Turning to my mother, I take a deep breath.

"Listen to me. You can't leave again. Do you understand? I don't care what happens-"

"I know. I won't. I couldn't help what I-"

"Well, you have to help it this time. You can't leave Marietta to fend for herself. It doesn't matter what you see on screen. You have to fight through it. Fight for your daughter!" I'm shouting now, it's as if all the anger I felt at her abandonment is seeping through.

"I was ill!" My mother has tears in her eyes, but still seems determined to defend herself, "I could have treated myself, if I'd known how..."

Maybe she was ill. I don't care. She can't leave Marietta on her own. Mum now owns a small healing business, and I've seen her bring people back from crippling depressions; but she just can't afford to go back to how she was.

"You must take care of her," I growl, putting a protective arm around Marietta's fragile frame.

"I'll be alright," says Marietta, "and you will be too, Hermione. You have to win! For me."

I look into her wide, earnest eyes, and I know I have to promise her this.

"I promise I'll try to win, Marietta," I vow.

I know it will be no use. The Tributes from Houses like Slytherin will have trained for this their whole lives; having more money than us to buy magic. In our Dorm, we barely know how to do the simplest spells. But I will try, for Marietta.

Just then, I hear a knock on the door, and Lucius Malfoy comes in to take Marietta and my mother away. I pull Marietta into a tight hug; kiss her forehead, and tuck in her shirt one more time before I let the Death Eaters take her. I simply peck my mother on the cheek before I let her go.

"I love you, Marietta...Mum!" I cry as they leave me.

The door slams shut. Before I even have time to reflect on the last sight of my mother and sister, the door opens and heavy footfalls announce the presence of none other than Severus Snape. Ron's father. I gasp in surprise. I can't help but remember our last meeting...

"_What are you doing out here?"_

_I'm nearing the Forest, running, but the greasy tones of Snape interrupt me. Somehow, outlined by the silhouette of the trees of the Forest, he seems so much more sinister that I have to back away. But, before I can really react, he's striding away, and I only notice that it appears that a galleon has fallen out of his pocket._

To this day, I have no idea whether he intentionally gave me the money. In my memory, with how creepy he seemed, I never think so...but who drops a galleon? He is filthy rich, but still.

It's weird that he's come to see me, since soon I'll be trying to kill his son. But I suppose he has his reasons. I wait for him to speak, not wanting to make a fool of myself.

"Miss Granger, I want you to look after my...son in the arena. Tributes often form alliances, and I would be grateful- but could you also give him this letter. Not straight away...It contains information of a delicate nature..."

I can only stare in shock. Form an alliance with Ron? That will make the probability of me having to kill him yet higher, and I don't want to kill him.

I take the letter. Don't ask me why. I don't want to be given the opportunity to give it to Ron. But I take it anyway.

Snape gets up, and then pauses.

"I'll make sure your sister is fed."

I blink. I start to say 'Thank you,' but he's already gone. And I try to comprehend the conversation I've just had.

My next guest is also unexpected. Penelope McGonagall, looking decidedly nervous, steps through the door, tear tracks glistening on her cheeks.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione!"

She suddenly throws herself into my arms.

"Um, Penny, shouldn't I be the one crying," I say as she sobs into my shoulder.

She smiles weakly.

"I came to give you something. You're allowed to wear one thing from your House in the Arena. One thing to remind you of home. I'd be honoured if you'd wear this." She holds out the pin I noticed earlier. On closer inspection, I see that it's a triangle inside a circle. The triangle looks almost like an eyes, with a vertical line through it, and a circle at the bottom.

"What is this?" I ask.

"Shh," she replies, "It's a bit risky, letting you have it. Have you ever heard of the Deathly Hallows?"

"No," I say.

"Barely anyone has," she whispers, "but there's a story; I can't tell it now, about Death giving away three immensely powerful objects. The line in the middle represents the elder wand, the most powerful wand in existence. The circle is the resurrection stone, which can bring...not the person, but a glimmer of a person back from the dead. And the triangle that surrounds them is the invisibility cloak."

I look at the pin closely, trying to decipher the deeper meaning.

"Voldemort banned anyone from trying to find them. The Deathly Hallows, I mean. People say he's obsessed with them himself," she explains.

I don't really understand the significance, but I take the pin anyway. Just as she begins to walk away, I realise something.

"Hey, how come you had this in the first place?" I ask.

She pauses, deliberating slightly.

"Let's just say, my mother is not as complacent as she sometimes seems." Then she walks out, leaving with a simple: "Good luck!"

My last visitor is Oliver. He comes in and immediately starts talking tactics, but I'm too tired to really concentrate on what he's saying. I guess it can't be too relevant, because no-one really knows what's going to happen. It's different every year.

"Hermione? Are you listening?" he says. I nod wearily, "You need to find a bow. You never know if they'll let you in with magic or without, but in the cornucopia there should be a bow. You need to get it. You can win, Hermione, I know you can."

"What if there's nothing to shoot," I say, but it's then the realisation dawns on me, "People? You want me to shoot people, Oliver?"

"It's no different from shooting a squirrel," he shrugs.

"T-they might not have a bow in the cornucopia," I stutter, still horrified at the thought of killing these people- no, not people- children.

"Then make one. Hermione, I just want you to know, before you leave, that I-"

It's at this point that the Death Eaters march back in, grabbing Oliver and flinging him into the corridor.

"Take care of Marietta!" I scream as the door slams shut once more.

I sit down and try to fathom what it is that he wanted to say, but I don't know. I flick on the screen of what looks like a muggle instrument, but is almost certainly magically enhanced. I click a button, and an image flickers to life. The Tributes from Dormitory 11, or the Ravenclaw House, have been chosen.

A small, dreamy looking girl, with long dirty blonde hair stares out of the screen at me. She doesn't seem scared, merely bemused. Her partner, in contrast is a boy with a burly build, dark hair, strong jaw. Luna Lovegood and Viktor Krum. I see the speech that their Head of House, Flitwick, makes about the entertainment and value of the games in our society. Krum sits through the whole thing looking surly, while Luna flicks at the air around her head. I start to wonder about her mental health. When they shake hands, and I'm able to see the difference in size and stature, I physically wince. The poor girl is dainty, delicate, and won't last three minutes in the Arena. Krum, however, looks as though he might make it. He looks strong, and doesn't seem bothered by the whole thing. I look at the audience, at an eccentric old man who must be Luna's father weeping into a bright lime green handkerchief. In Ravenclaw, their profession is to become Unspeakables, and the people certainly do look grim, and they stay silent throughout the ceremony. Nobody volunteers for Luna. To be fair, she doesn't seem to mind all that much.

I flick the screen off, and flop onto the sofa.

Thinking, why me?

But of course, it had to be me. I just didn't see it yet.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This chapter's gonna be a bit short because I had to end it a particular way, but hopefully it's just as satisfying! I love all you guys who favourite me, but please review as well! I love to know how you guys want me to improve! I'm not a perfect author, but I don't know that unless you tell me! Anyway, I appreciate you reading it anyway, so feel no pressure, don't be scared of me (although many people are) and...READ! **

Harry. His name whirls pointlessly around in my head. I can't breathe. I can't see. Spots blur my vision; my brain goes round in circles, trying to grasp what's going on. My legs sway, but I manage not to tumble forwards. Harry.

No.

"No!" I gasp, my voice returning enough for me to rasp the feeble protest, "Harry! HARRY!"

Before I know it, I'm running, ripping myself away from Umbridge, and sprinting towards Harry as fast as my lungs and legs will allow me. It's useless. I know that. It won't stop me from trying to undo this.

Even though I understand that nothing will change his mind now.

I see him walking defiantly towards us, through the stream of tears which flow easily now. That's before I slam into him, burying my head in his chest as though that will block out everything that's happening, as if that will make it so that we can go back to the Forbidden Forest after this is all over. But it will never be over.

Nothing matters anymore except that Harry _has to live. _I can never hope to fathom the reason behind his volunteering, but if it had something to do with me, I'll never forgive myself. Maybe he had some twisted idea of saving me, but I can't let that happen.

He holds me in his arms, stroking my hair in a controlled rhythm. He murmurs reassurances into my ear, but nothing will reassure me now.

I can hear discontent and anger in those watching. They all know there's something between us now. I honestly couldn't care less. There's no point in hiding it anymore, because if these are to be my last days with him before I die, then I will spend every minute in his arms. No matter what the consequences.

Harry gently pushes me away from him, and kisses me softly on the lips- in front of our whole Dormitory- but there's a hint of sadness in his cheeky grin as he pulls back.

"Guess the cat's out of the bag now," he whispers.

He takes my hand, and walk together- as we conceivably will be for the rest of my life- towards Umbridge and whatever else is waiting for us out there. Salt water is still trickling down my cheeks, but I feel better with the knowledge of my conviction to save Harry.

Not that I'm looking forward to going through with what I've realised- that if I can't kill him, I'll have to kill myself. Or at least put myself in harm's way. Not that I have a great chance of survival either way.

Umbridge's eyes bulge as she takes the sight of what she despises most in life. Love crossing the divide. Rich and poor. Different Houses. All this love is quashed, diminished, gone.

Except for us.

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, but fails to make any sound come out. After a couple of tries, five Death Eaters come to drag us away.

The time allocated for visitors is a painful experience. I know that no-one but my family will come to wish me good luck.

Bill and my father come, though, and that's enough. I fling my arms around them both and sob. My emotions are running too wild to control, and I can't be bothered to contain them anymore.

"Ginny, you're gonna make it," says Bill, "You can win this, I know it."

I don't say anything. I have no intention of winning, but there _will _be a Gryffindor victor this year.

My father looks at me, silently, while Bill tells me about the faith he has in my chance of winning. For some reason, dad looks guilty.

"Turn on the TV," he says.

I only have an hour left with what remains of my family, so I begin to protest, but my dad turns on the strange box anyway.

It starts with Dormitory 12. Gryffindor-Ravenclaw, who hardly ever win. Hermione Granger and Ron Snape.

Hermione is a fairly pretty girl, with bushy brown hair and a fierce expression- I make a mental note to look out for her. Ron looks...familiar. Red hair, freckles, he reminds me of us.

Next to flicker onto the screen are the Ravenclaw (or Dormitory 11) Tributes. Luna Lovegood and Viktor Krum. The polar opposite of each other, the dreamy blonde girl and the burly boy with the dark hair.

Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw is next, the 10th Dorm. I remember vaguely that the career of the House is Herbologists, and that Professor Sprout is their Head of House. Neville Longbottom and Alicia Spinnet are the representatives, and I feel sorry for the pudgy boy who looks like he won't last five minutes. Alicia looks like she's made of stronger stuff, but this House barely ever does well.

I get up and turn the "TV" off. I can't bear it, watching people I will soon be sent off to kill. I might meet them before them, talk to them, get to know them.

"It's good to know what you're up against," says Bill.

"I don't care," I respond, "I don't want to watch that. Not now."

"Neither do I," says dad, who for some reason is as white as a sheet.

"You were the one who turned it on," I grumble, but there are tears in my eyes again as I remember Luna, so small and dreamy, so unaware. None of us deserve to die. Not one of the 24 kids they're going to send to fight to the death actually _deserve _this.

I think about having to kill some of these kids. To save Harry, to save myself. I suppose the realisation will sink in when I finally get into the arena...but not yet. Right now, with the images of Luna and Neville in my head, the very idea is despicable.

"Ginny, it's gonna be OK," Bill says soothingly.

It's not. He must though that. But I suppose he's trying to convince himself as much as me. I know he won't be able to cope with me dying after Charlie, and for a minute I wonder if I'm being selfish to my family. If I should try to win.

My situation is as confusing as one can get. I'm being pulled from separate sides. Do I get myself killed for the man I love? Do I try to stay alive for my family, and possibly end up killing Harry? Or do I let destiny decide my fate?

There's no safe option. No option I can live with, without hurting those closest to me? Or losing those I love forever.

"I think you should leave now," I say in a strangled voice that barely seems to belong to me.

"We'll stay," my dad replies.

For the rest of the hour, we sit talking tactics- it stops us from dwelling on other things.

"So, in the last five years they've had a desert, an underwater tank where everyone died practically straight away because no-one could think of a spell to keep them breathing, a forest, a mountain range and a dragon arena. What do you reckon it'll be this year?" I ask with trepidation.

"Who knows? They've always got new ways to- to kill. It makes it entertaining. All we can be sure of it that it'll be sadistic and evil."

"Bill...who knows if I'll be able to deal with it?"

He hesitates, and it's dad who answers.

"You're strong, Ginny. Whatever they throw at you, you'll overcome. I'm sure of it, that you can do it. You'll make us proud."

Dammit. Way to make me feel worse than I already do.

"But chances are they'll still put us all near the cornucopia, and there'll be...what, exactly?" I curse myself inwardly for not paying more attention to the Games when they aired.

"All twenty-four Tributes are stationed around the cornucopia, armed with only a wand. There'll be an initial killing off of many Tributes in the first five minutes. You'll have to get out of there. No matter how tempting the cornucopia is."

"Why would the cornucopia be tempting," I ask.

"Wow, you really don't watch, do you," Bill says in a weary tone, "The cornucopia is filled with desirable magical items, and even some muggle survival objects as well. When you get to the Ministry, they'll give you a wand, a proper wand, with a core and everything. Some guy called Ollivander makes them. So you'll have magic when you get in the Arena, and, as I hope you know, the winner gets to keep that magic-"

"Hagrid, that Dormitory 12 guy, doesn't look that magical," I interrupt.

"That's because he's drowning in depression and drink. He was a great man, once, I should know. And he'll be your mentor as well as the kids from 12, so you'd better have some faith in him," my father adds.

Bill brushes us both off, "-but many people who are shoved into the arena have no idea how to use their magic. So they stock the cornucopia with spell books and other magic items- sneakoscopes, one year there were broomsticks...And then, for the less able magical beings, there are knives, bows and arrows, stuff like that, and of course there are the backpacks that are generally the most desirable."

"What's in the backpacks?" I ask.

"If you'd let me _finish_," Bill snaps, "it's almost a lucky dip with the backpacks. Of course, the ones with the most valuable content are placed close to the cornucopia...anyway, they contain thing essential for life. Food, water, and places to store them, a tent maybe, or some matches. That kind of thing. Sometimes they're just filled with useless stuff, like once someone got their hand cut off, just to get a backpack filled with sand."

The more I hear, the more trepidation I feel. I never wanted to watch the Games. It's supposed to be compulsory, to watch it, but the Death Eaters don't enforce the rule. Last year, Harry and I went out to the Forest and did a bit of hunting, but mostly just talked. After Charlie died, see, there was no way anyone was going to force me to watch the Games again. So they let me go.

Once, Harry and I stole broomsticks from an out of bounds shed near the Forbidden Forest. We couldn't fly very high, otherwise someone would have seen and reported us, because flying is against the law. But even flying low, under the cover of trees, was thrilling. Harry was much better than me, but I got into the swing of it as time passed...

"Bet you can't catch me!" Harry yells over the sound of the wind rushing past us.

"You're probably right!" I shout back. The exhilaration of tumbling through the air is refreshing, as is the adrenaline of knowing we could be caught at any moment; for not watching the Games, or for stealing the brooms.

More than anything, though, flying like this feels _right. _Even though I'm not half as good as Harry, I'm still doing pretty well for my first time. I swerve to narrowly avoid a tree, do a loop-the-loop to get through the branches, dip down to run my hand through the water...

"Keep up, Ginny!" Harry calls over his shoulder.

I put on a sudden burst of speed, getting almost level to him before he shoots off again. Laughing, panting, it's a long time before we eventually land and think about putting the broomsticks away.

"Why don't we keep them?" Harry says as we walk back to the shed, hand in hand.

"We can't! They'd catch us, eventually."

"Maybe, maybe not." Suddenly, he pulls me closer to him until I'm pressed up against him, "You know this can never work, right?" he says, suddenly serious, "They'll expect me to get married, or you. But they'll never expect _us _to be in love, to get married, any of that..."

"Of course not," I feel sadness creeping over me at the thought, "I suppose...we can't keep it a secret forever, can we?"

"Maybe. To be honest, they're so complacent here that we could start snogging, and they'd probably still think we were doing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation or something!"

"What's that?" I ask.

"Nevermind. Anyway, we don't have to worry about that yet," he kisses me lightly on the lips and pulls us back towards that shed.

He didn't realise the effect his words had on me. The thought of having to lose him, to some other girl, who had money and pretty clothes and was popular, it was sickening to me. I have to accept that that is what's going to happen now. Once he wins the Games, he'll come back here and marry a pretty blonde girl whose parents own a business. I just have to accept that.

"Ginny?" Bill says, probably for the fifth time or something like that. I've been so absorbed in my thoughts that I've completely tuned out to the world around me.

"Yeah," I reply and I hear him breathe a sigh of relief, they probably thought I'd slipped into a coma (I don't know what that is, but Harry used the phrase once and it sounded impressive).

"I was just saying, don't go for the cornucopia, you'll get killed- run in the opposite direction and...try and form an alliance with someone who can hunt or find water or something like that. If you want to form an alliance with someone, though, it's best to organise that with them beforehand, otherwise you'll end up going up to some random person and getting killed on the spot." He looks meaningfully at me, and the look says 'but not an alliance with Harry. Everyone already thinks you're a whore.'

But I have to keep Harry alive, so I'll form an alliance with him, to stop him from getting hurt. I think about maybe including Luna in the alliance, but it would be too risky for Harry.

Instead, I reply, "I can hunt for myself."

"Yeah, I'm starting to think about what you were actually doing those days you _said _you had a job."

It's a fair accusation. But how else was I supposed to explain all the extra money we suddenly had for food. I couldn't tell them I was selling illegally killed animals at the black market, so I told them I had a job in our clothes store. They believed me- I've always been interested in fashion- and I bought us food. Everyone was happy.

And Harry taught me to hunt.

I was apprehensive at first, but I ended up having a knack for setting traps and weaving snares, creating fish hooks. Harry was the one who would kill squirrels and birds, but we'd divide our catches equally.

My father doesn't say anything; neither does he look betrayed, or angry, like Bill does.

"I kept us alive, Bill. Say what you want about me, but you can't deny that."

I suppose Bill doesn't want t leave on bad terms, so he nods.

The Death Eaters open the doors before we can exchange another word, but as my father passes me, he whispers something in my ear which I already know will change the remainder of my life.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Well, as you may have noticed in the 2****nd**** chapter, Ginny's kind of interested in clothes. And Hermione's really not. Anyway, I had a lot of fun trying to get these two characters to work and interact together. For the record, I'm not making Ginny go suddenly OOC. You've only seen her talking to her family and Harry so far, who she trusts enough to be herself with. With most people, she puts up a front of bubbliness, OK! No complaints about that.**

I don't cry. Not as they take me to the train station, not when I see my mother and Marietta again, crying as they watch me board the scarlet red train. And I especially don't cry when I see Ron get onto the train as well.

He's been crying. Not noticeably, at first. But on second glance, I notice that his eyes are puffy and tinged red. I instantly wonder whether this is his strategy for winning. A girl named Bellatrix Lestrange did it about a decade ago. She seemed innocent enough, crying as she left Hogwarts, running away from the cornucopia. But then she started killing. And it turned out she had a real sadistic streak. I still remember, even though I was so young, the image of the slit throat...cut into a smiley face. She's one of the most loyal Death Eaters now, from what I hear. But her plan was basically to make people underestimate her, forget her. I wonder if that's what Ron's trying to do. I wonder why I care.

The train is a red steam train; long and winding. There aren't enough Ministry employees who are willing to be mentors, so each mentor has two Houses. Umbridge will be responsible for us and Gryffindor, Dormitory 12.

We have to wait until late in the evening for all the Tributes to board the train, and for Umbridge to escort the Gryffindor Tributes into our carriage.

"Ginny, Harry, this is Hermione, and Ron is over there...in the corner..."

It's true. Ron and I haven't talked since we got on the train. Hell, we haven't talked at ALL.

Ginny is a small girl, with a fiery mane of red hair and an explosion of freckles. She looks a lot like Ron, and is wearing a pretty Reaping outfit. Harry has untidy black hair and bright green eyes, and is wearing all black, with a red and gold tie. They're holding hands, and Ginny is crying silently, even now.

I instantly size up the competition. Harry looks like more of a competition than Ginny, who, at this point, seems quite meek in comparison.

"Hey," says Harry.

I don't reply. It's Ron who comes over and shakes his hand.

Ron and Harry won't stop talking. Ginny seems unwilling to leave Harry's side, but doesn't contribute to the conversation. I stand in my own corner wishing I wasn't here.

Instead of moping, I decide to explore our carriage. It's huge, and it has to be to accommodate for the luxury. Everyone has their own bedroom and en suite: me, Ron, Harry, Ginny, Umbridge and Hagrid. Hagrid was supposed to come out to welcome us aboard, but he's probably clinging to a bottle in his room.

I go into a room that I assume to be mine, which has a king-size blue bed, a chest of drawers for my clothes, a 'TV' as I've been told the black box is called, and a bathroom with a bath and hot and cold running water. There isn't any hot running water in Hogwarts, it's all heated by fires.

"Nice, isn't it."

I whirl, at the sound of the voice behind me. I hadn't heard her speak before; those must have been the first words she said since getting on the train.

"Yeah, I s'pose."

"Don't have this kind of luxury in 12 then, either?"

I bristle angrily at this remark.

"Luxury- in 12? You've got to be joking. We've got it worse than the rest of you put together!"

She shrugs and walks over to the TV. Turns it on.

"I'll leave if you want, but I just wanted to catch who the Tributes are," she says in a calm voice.

Now that all the Reapings are finished, they start at Dormitory 1 in the replays.

I see the handsome face of the male Gryffindor-Hufflepuff, golden hair and a muscular build. Cedric Diggory. The reaction to him being chosen is mainly confidence, as opposed to sadness. It does look as though he has a good chance of winning. Hannah Abbott, by comparison, is greeted by looks of devastation, and a loud cry by someone I assume to be the girl's mother. She's a pudgy, round faced girl, with hair up in pigtails and a yellow pinafore dress, red ribbons in her hair. Cedric looks confident, she looks scared.

In Dormitory 2, Slytherin (the favourite of the ministry), two blondes are chosen, who could be siblings, but aren't. Fleur Delacour, with long silvery hair, and a willowy frame walks gracefully towards the front after her name is chosen. The boy, Draco Malfoy, though, looks terrified. His white-blonde hair is slicked back, and his grey eyes are wide and frightened. I almost feel sorry for him, but then I remember that he's a Slytherin.

Then, from one of the two triple Houses (Hufflepuff-Slytherin-Gryffindor) a small boy named Colin Creevey and a girl called Katie Bell. And on. And on.

I re-watch my own Reaping, but I also see Ginny's.

Her face as she run towards Harry. Her tears as he kisses her.

I look up, shocked, into her face. Her eyes are brimming again, but she seems determined to hold the tears in.

"He volunteered for you?" I ask.

"Yes. He told me on the way to the train. To keep me safe." I see her blink furiously, trying to keep the tears at bay.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"It's OK. Nothing you can do about him being a heroic git!" she says with a watery laugh, "Anyway, no point in me moping. Have you looked in the drawers yet? The clothes are a bit Ministry style at the moment, but I reckon I can stitch some new patterns into them."

I stare at her in bewilderment. She seems oblivious, still nattering about clothes as she wanders over to the drawers and shows me what's inside.

OK, I'm not a clothes person. Give me a jumper that'll last me the winter, and a t-shirt for spring. Maybe some robes for special occasions. But even I have to admit, the drawers are filled with something else. There's every colour-every style-that anyone could ever wish for. I pick a blue shirt from the top of the pile. It seems to shimmer weightlessly as I turn it around in my hands, and (I can't believe I'm saying this) it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"Pretty cool, right?" I hadn't realised Ginny was still there. I hadn't realised she'd stopped talking, either.

"I s'pose," I say finally, "But what's the point. It's not like we're going to be here very long anyway. And all our public appearances will be in dresses made by our _stylists!_" Sarcasm, because Gryffindor and Gryffindor-Ravenclaw always get the worst stylists.

That just sets her off again.

"Do you think they'll let us consult with the stylists and stuff like that? Because that would be so cool!"

I sigh. There's obviously no understanding this girl; who seems to only take delight in the trivial and unimportant.

"I'm getting on your nerves, aren't I?" she asks, looking a little crestfallen, "Don't worry, I'll go to my room."

She goes, and I sink onto the bed, finally alone.

I peel off the dress, and run a hot shower in the bathroom. A shower! Normally in Dormitory 12 we have to boil all our water before we bathe. I step in and the hot water scalds my skin, but it's a welcome relief from the needles that are pricking, just under the surface of my skin. I'm going to die. I might as well get in a little comfort before the end.

When I get out, I towel my hair dry instead of using the shifty looking 'hair-dryer' and dress in simple clothes- a green shirt and trousers. I see the reflection of Penelope's pin, just before I leave the room. I look closer at the pattern, and a memory stirs, beneath the surface. I don't have time to dwell on it, though, before Umbridge calls us for dinner in a brisk tone.

I wander down the corridor, trying to work out where the dining hall is. Thankfully, Ron comes to collect me (I'm obviously late) and takes me to a 'dining carriage' of the train. All the Tributes eat together, a practise which I'm not sure I support, as I look around at the people who are going to kill me.

It's a big table though, so I mostly talk to Ginny- who can actually talk about deeper subjects than clothes, once I prompt her, it turns out- and Harry. But not Ron. I can still barely look at him. None of us want to mention Hagrid's absence, because who really wants him here anyway?

"It's certainly been an exhausting day!" Umbridge seems to be talking about herself, as she smoothes her hair and brushes down her pink jacket.

Before I can reply with an angry retort, however, the first course arrives.

There's food I never imagined served over the course of the dinner. Meat and soups and pastries and desserts with chocolate and strawberries. It's extravagant and unnecessary and I don't care. Umbridge gives us a lecture on each of the dishes, but I'm too hungry to notice.

Nearing the end of the meal, Umbridge ruins the atmosphere with a statement I can only assume she meant to be encouraging.

"Well, I must applaud your table manners! Last year I had two _animals_ who ate the whole meal with their fingers. Soup and everything!" She seems shocked that such a thing could ever happen. I'm not. Last year there were two dirt poor kids who were killed in the initial bloodbath. They'd never had to use table manners in their lives. They were lucky to get food at all. I feel nothing but disgust in that moment for the woman who is supposed to be my mentor. I notice that Ginny is also glaring through slit-like eyes.

After the rich- and slightly nauseating- dinner, Umbridge insists that Ron goes to get Hagrid, and that we all sit down to watch the replaying of the Reapings.

I barely pay attention to anyone but the Malfoy boy from Dormitory 2, Ginny and Harry from 5, Neville from 10, and Luna from Ravenclaw, Dormitory 11.

I can barely stand to watch my own Reaping. I hear Ginny gasp when I volunteer in Marietta's place, but I don't look up from the floor.

Hagrid finally arrives with Ron as the anthem of The Wizarding World plays to signify the end of the programme. Hagrid is sopping wet, and Ron is panting.

"What happened?" asks Umbridge in a sugar sweet voice.

"He was asleep, and I couldn't wake him up, so...um, I poured freezing water over him," Ron explains in a somewhat embarrassed tone.

"Then 'e dragged me 'ere for no good reason, an' I'm tired as 'ell," complains Hagrid.

"Well, I can certainly see why you weren't at dinner," Umbridge says in a disapproving tone, taking in the state of Hagrid's appearance, "_You _have a LOT to learn about presentation!"

"Well, he's drunk," says Ron, "He's not going to bother with making himself look good when he can barely see straight."

"He's always drunk," I add, "Nothing you can do about it." I shrug, and Ron and Ginny laugh.

"We'll see about that!" hisses Umbridge, "and we'll see how funny _you two _find it when you find out that HAGRID is the difference between life and death for you! He's the one who will get you sponsors, and will at least _try _to get you out of that Arena alive!"

Of course, Hagrid chooses that moment to vomit all over Umbridge's expensive pink shoes. She screams, as though in agony, and runs out of the room, screaming for someone to assist her.

Once her screams fade, everyone in the room bursts out laughing. Hagrid is covered in stinking sick, but this doesn't look like an unusual thing to happen to him. Harry and Ron make an unspoken agreement with each other, and drag him out of the room to clean him up.

Umbridge is right. We need Hagrid if we want to win. And we need him as sober as possible. Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure it's a fair amount of years since he's been sober. I exchange a quick glance with Ginny and we follow the boys to Hagrid's bedroom.

It stinks of alcohol already, and he's managed to turn it into a dump even though you can see that it was a nice room. Once. The room is torn apart, literally, and as we walk into the bathroom we see the unwelcome sight of Harry and Ron trying to wrestle Hagrid into the shower.

"Go and calm Umbridge down," Harry addresses Ginny through gritted teeth, "we can handle this."

We dither for a second, but the Hagrid starts spewing again, so we hurry out the room and down the corridors to try and find Umbridge.

She's in her room, a completely new outfit on, but she's still absent-mindedly scrubbing at her feet as though Hagrid has left a permanent imprint on her.

"Um, Umbridge?" Ginny falters as we dither in the doorway.

"Oh, come in, come in," she says happily, "I must apologise for my most terrible lack of etiquette back then. It was most improper of me!" she gives a strange, fake laugh, "Well, you two need your rest, I'm sure. It's going to be a big, big day tomorrow! Stylists and camera crews!"

If anyone needs a good long rest, it's her, so Ginny and I back out of the room and hurry back along the corridors. We knock on the door of Hagrid's room, quietly, to see if we're allowed in.

Harry opens the door and steps out into the hall with us, and I see something pass between him and Ginny in the instant before he starts talking.

"He's cleaned up. Mostly. We put him in bed- and he's asleep right now. Ron's trying to find any alcohol he's got stashed in the room so that we can try and keep him mildly sober." He turns to me, "Ron's been great. You're lucky to have him as a partner."

I'm not. Because I've just realised something about Ron. He's kind. Kinder than I'll ever be. And kindness is dangerous to me. Kindness can root itself in my heart and never get out. Kindness can stab me in the back.

I grunt in return to Harry. Storming to my room, I pass a window where a see a patch of dandelions streaking past us.

Damn. Because those dandelions remind me of Ron's bloody kindness again. I remember the dandelions I saw the day after I first caught his eyes.

_In the corridor, between classes. A look that lasts too long, lingering...until I break it, looking out of the window. I'm still half starved to death, but a flash of yellow catches my eye through the glass. A dandelion, signifying the beginning of spring. The end of our troubles. Plants will grow in the Forest, plants that I can pick and stew and cook for Marietta and myself. _

_Those few weeks, I finally pick up my bow and arrow, begin to hunt as well as gather. I feed my family, keep us alive. And gradually, my mother begins to come back to us. Eats by herself. Speaks for the first time in months, in a hoarse, gravelly voice. She begins to look after Marietta. Which hurts me at first, because that's my job now, but I get over it. Eventually._

Bread. Dandelions. Ron Snape is the worst enemy I'll ever have .


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I liked writing this chapter-so I hope you like reading it. If you do, review! I'm gonna say it 'til I'm blue in the face (I'll take a picture, if you like), but no-one's gonna listen ! Ah, I don't mind. Just read and be happy, read and be happy...**

As Hermione storms away, I swear I hear a sob, but it's probably just me. I turn back to Harry, who looks confused.

"It's OK, you didn't do anything wrong," I assure him quickly, "She's just...well, you noticed how she didn't talk to Ron at dinner. And she hasn't talked to him since they got here. There's something between them, something in the past- has Ron told you anything?"

"No," he replies, "we get on great, but we're avoiding any of the deeper subjects right now because...well, you know."

There's a short silence.

"We've got our first public appearance tomorrow. Nervous?" I ask.

"Not really. They're gonna see me every minute of every day while I'm in the Arena. I'd better get used to it."

"That's not what I meant. If people see you and like you, you'll get sponsors. Sponsors that could help you survive."

"I'm not really worried about that, either," he answers simply.

It's horrible, this distance that's wedged itself between us since the Reaping. I'm lying to him, he's lying to me...both of us trying to keep the other safe.

I hate it.

If I die, I want to still have Harry. But at dinner, while watching the Reapings, I was talking to Hermione, and Ron- but not Harry.

What he did was moronic, and I will never forgive him for it. If he hadn't volunteered, I could have at least tried to win. I'm under no impressions that I would have, but at least I would have tried. By volunteering himself, he's put me in worse danger than I was before. It's like he underestimates how much I love him. I suppose I've never been expressive enough with my love, but I always thought he knew...

"_I love you," he says, playing with a lock of my flaming red hair, and staring deep into my eyes._

_I find I have to look away. _

_It's something that's gone unsaid between us for a long time, but I think we've known it for a while now._

"_I-I love you, too," I say, voice shaking from the truth of the sentiment. _

_It's true. No-one- not even Bill or dad, or even_ Charlie_- has ever made me feel happier, or more free, than Harry. Every time we kiss it sends electricity shooting through my body. Every time I hear my name on his lips, butterflies fly through my stomach. _

_He takes my hand, holds it as though he'll never let go. He'll never let go._

It was moments like that that made me think nothing would ever come between us. Of course, something would have. Even if not for the Games, expectations and prejudice would have torn us apart. I would have been expected to marry a person of my class; a poor person, with little to offer me- little hope, little love. Not that I would have minded that, if my heart had not chosen to go another way. But people will always think of me as the girl who seduced the rich boy, I suppose. I'll have to deal with that.

"Goodnight, Harry," I say, when the tears begin to sting my eyes.

"'Night, Ginny," he replies, sadness cloaking his green eyes.

"I still love you," I say under my breath as he walks away.

I turn to go to my room, and when I get there, I flop down on the red and gold bed (Gryffindor colours- how creative), and flick on the TV. I know I've got no chance of getting to sleep, so I decide to size up my competition. Who I'm going to have to keep Harry safe from.

Ron and Hermione first. I've enjoyed talking to them, but in the arena all that is going to change. I can't risk forming alliances with anyone but Harry; it would only increase the danger of him being killed. They can't be so much of a threat because Dormitory 12 Tributes never even come close to winning.

Then again, neither do Dormitory 5.

Then, as Luna appears on the screen, I feel my heart sink. If I were to form an alliance with anyone, it would be the sweet, innocent young girl, who I instinctively feel like protecting. But I know I can't. Viktor is a different matter. I know to be wary of him- his brute strength puts him at a distinct advantage. However, killing him off with a wand would be easier.

Neville and Alicia from Dormitory 10 don't look like a massive threat. Neville is pudgy and awkward, and although Alicia looks relatively strong, she has tear tracks down her face in the shots of the train station.

Then again, so did I.

Dormitory 9 is a boy called Seamus and a girl called Angelina. Dormitory 9 is Gryffindor-Slytherin-Ravenclaw, so I don't worry too much. Triple Houses don't generally do very well, they're sometimes called the 'Squib Houses', because the Sorting Hat obviously couldn't decide.

Dormitory 8 consists of Dean and Cho. I instantly take a dislike to the Cho girl, who starts blubbing even harder than me when she gets called up- and the love of her life isn't even factored into the equation! Dean looks nice though, he tries to smile bravely throughout the ceremony. Cho and him both look like easy targets, though. Which is strange, because Ravenclaw-Slytherin is often considered one of the best Houses, producing Healers.

Dormitory 7 is Hufflepuff. Zacharias Smith and Lavender Brown are the Tributes, but I instantly write them off as those who will die in the initial bloodbath. Hufflepuff has never, EVER won.

Gregory Goyle and Parvati Patil are the tributes from Slytherin-Gryffindor, Dormitory 6. Slytherin-Gryffindor is often the one to watch because it's two of the strongest Houses combined. However, Parvati looks beside herself- not to mention lost- when she is parted from her twin, Padma, who I think is a Ravenclaw and therefore was there illegally. Chances are she'll be executed for sneaking into another Houses Reaping. Goyle is a brute who should be easy to kill, using brains to overcome his brawl.

I skip my own Reaping, not wanting to watch my own tears, or the last kiss Harry and I shared.

Dormitory 4, though, is a boy called Vincent Crabbe, and a girl named Pansy Parkinson. They both look horrible, typical Slytherin-Hufflepuffs, and I note to steer clear them. They're a Career House, one of the three strongest Houses, so picking a fight would be suicide.

Dormitory 3 is another triple House: Hufflepuff-Slytherin-Gryffindor. The Tributes are a scared looking boy, Colin Creevey, and a girl, Katie Bell. They don't look like massive competition, although Katie has a spark in her eye that could be dangerous once ignited.

Dorms 1 and 2 are the best Houses. Dormitory 2 is the Ministry's favourite: Slytherin, of course. Draco Malfoy, a blonde boy, who I recognise to be the son of Dormitory 12's head Death Eater Lucius, is picked as male Tribute. His female counterpart is another blonde: Fleur Delacour, who looks so confident and self-assured that she must have some special skill that will set her apart.

Dormitory 1 is Hufflepuff-Gryffindor, and they always put on a show. The male Tribute is a heart-throb, I assume, from the sighs of the girls who see him up onto the stage; Cedric Diggory. The girl, who he eyes with distaste is Hannah Abbott, who looks as if she won't last five minutes. Chances are she won't. Cedric looks as though he might go far, though, he has a muscular build, and he seems to have brains, from the little I see of him.

The TV flickers to a scene we didn't see before- an interview with Victor Bellatrix Lestrange and some Heads of Houses. I recognise McGonagall from 12, Slughorn from 2, Professor Flitwick from 11 and Sprout from 10.

The interviewer- who in a few days will be interviewing me- is called Kingsley. He seems nice enough, for a Ministry representative, anyway.

I barely pay attention to their chatter about the other Tributes- they say almost the same as I thought. But when they start talking about me and Harry, I listen.

"So, we've got a sibling of a past Tribute, and her brother put up quite a fight, didn't he, Bella?"

"Yes, he was one of my...favourites. I would have liked to meet him, if he'd won."

McGonagall cuts in, looking disgusted by the dark haired woman's comment: "Charlie was a fighter, there's no doubt about it. I think Ginny will do well, but it is such a rarity to have a Gryffindor Victor."

Kingsley takes over again, asking Sprout and Slughorn the next question.

"And that was some reaction had had when...Harry was chosen, wasn't it? Thoughts?"

Sprout; a kindly, happy woman, snorts uncharacteristically.

"She's made an error, very early on. The other Tributes will see her devotion to him and they'll use him to get to her. And vice versa, although the boy wasn't _quite _as obvious."

"He did volunteer for her though," cuts in Flitwick, "And I think that speaks louder than her reaction, if you ask me."

"I think they're two silly teenagers, and they've got no idea what they're going in for," says Slughorn simply.

I turn the TV off, sickened. How can they, with their narrow minds and selfish thoughts, hope to understand Harry's or my own motives? How can they make assumptions about who we are, what we'll do?

How dare they?

The Games is no bigger than a popularity contest. I can understand that now, and I regret every uninformed decision I made about the other Tributes. Only when I meet them, actually talk to them, should I be able to make judgements.

I always knew the Games were sick, but never to this extent. That they'd personify us on a brief glimpse, that they'd objectify us- make us pawns in a Game of chess too big for us to comprehend.

I flop down onto the bed, closing my eyes and trying to drift to sleep. It's hard, knowing what I'm going to have to face, tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that- every day until my looming death occurs.

I think about the parade of stylists and interviewers and feasts that will come before I'm plunged into a death-trap arena. I think about saving Harry. I think about Voldemort; the sadistic creep who started it all.

I drift into an uneasy sleep.

It's filled with flashes of horrific images, of red blood spilling out of a carcass in my arms, of flesh and bones and fire and water and the white mist of breath swirling around me. I can't move, I can't run, I'm trapped. I see the red, snake-like slits of Voldemort's eyes, and the pastiness of his bone white skin. I see a snake, rearing up. I see Charlie...

I scream, sitting bolt upright, sweat pouring down my skin and tears cascading down my cheeks. The images still reel behind my eyes, and I can still feel the horror, the pain.

They're too vivid, too haunting, to let go of, to shake off and get back to sleep.

My screams were too real.

There's no Harry to comfort me now, I've got to deal with the nightmares by myself. Alone in a dark room, hugging my knees to my chest, drenched in a cold sweat that makes my clothes stick to my clammy skin.

I want to call for Harry, to get up and run to his room, to curl up in the crook of his arm, and sleep peacefully again.

It's only pride that stops me.

If I were to go to him now, it would start rumours; rumours that would be damaging to both Harry and my reputations. And sponsors are few and far between for the subjects of rumours.

Like a couple of years ago, when there was a rumour that a Tribute called Dorcas was sleeping with one of the male Tributes. Everyone labelled her a slut, and chances are she would have got a lot further- maybe even have won- if she hadn't made enemies out of the people at the Ministry. Meaning she didn't get sponsors. And eventually died of dehydration.

I'm still shivering, still wishing I was in Harry's arms, but in a state of near-consciousness, I find myself re-living the first night he heard my nightmares.

"_CHARLIE!"_

_My scream of terror is loud enough to wake the whole Dormitory, but only one person wakes up. And of course it's Harry. Bill is too wrapped up in his own nightmares to notice mine, and dad's always been a deep sleeper. But Harry's bed is very close to ours, so it's hardly surprising._

"_Ginny. Ginny, it's OK," he soothes, crouching next to my bed, rubbing my back in steady circles. I bury my face in his chest, snuffles and sobs working their way out of my chest, hiccups shaking my body as I try to regain control._

_I didn't want Harry to see me like this._

_He's so nice about it, though, it's hard to be self-conscious. _

_He lays he down on the bed like a small child, then lies down next to me, encasing me in his arms._

I think that was the first moment that I truly knew that I loved him. The first moment I really realised how utterly selfless and brilliant he was.

That's when I realise how heartless and stupid I've been.

Because I've been beating Harry up for who he is. Brave, heroic, downright stupid- but always, _always _selfless.

I should have known that.

From the first moment he put his arm around me- from the first moment he spoke to me even- he's been looking out for me more than himself. So maybe it was love at first sight- for him, anyway. So what? The point is, he's cared about me from the moment we met, and today all I've done is punish him for it.

This doesn't make me go back on my promise to sacrifice myself for him- but it does make me realise that I need to make the most of what little time we have left together.

I pad across the hallways in my bare feet, a dressing gown drawn tight around me. As I pass Hagrid's room I hear his grunting snores and as I pass Umbridge's I hear nearly the same thing. I have to stifle a giggle as I listen to her grunts and groans.

I pass Hermione's room, which is dark, but I hear Hermione thrashing around under the covers.

Finally, I reach Harry's room. The light is off, and I hear the heavy breathing that means he's asleep. Harry's always been able to get to sleep, no matter how bad the situation. I tiptoe into his room, and watching his sleeping form for a few seconds longer. He looks so peaceful, so open- with no expression of [ain or hurt on his face, that I let an involuntary smile cross my lips. I can hardly bear to shake him awake, but I need to hear his voice- it's the only thing that will soothe me.

"Harry?" I whisper tentatively.

He rolls over, his eyes opening slowly, finding my searching gaze.

"Ginny?" he mutters groggily, rubbing his eyes as he sits up.

"Harry, can you forgive me? I've been horrible to you: giving you the cold shoulder when you were only trying to save me! Please, tell me you forgive me?" I bury my head in his shoulder, but he pushes me away. I draw back, hurt, and feel the tears begin to form in my eyes.

"Ginevra Molly Weasley. How can I forgive you..." he says very seriously, looking me straight in the eye, "...when there was nothing to forgive?"

He smiles and takes my hand, then gently kisses the tip of my nose.

"Did you have a nightmare?" he asks, pulling me into his arms as he lies back down.

"Yes, but that's not why I came," I say drowsily, sinking easily into the protective embrace of his encircling arms.

"Sure, Ginny," he laughs quietly, "Love you."

"Love you, too," I state, already beginning to drift to sleep, a feat which would have been impossible without Harry.

I'm asleep before I know it.

My dreams aren't nightmares, and seem almost too vivid to be dreams. I see Charlie talking to Harry, and they're laughing together... and then Charlie's head morphs into Ron's, but however I try to reach them, I can't.

When I wake up, I start thinking about what my father told me again. He didn't have time to say much. Just three words. And he'll never have time to fully explain to me.

Harry's still asleep, so in the interest of secrecy, I walk out of the room, letting the pink glow from the train window bathe me in its refreshing light. I remember yesterday, waking up to the pink light from the window near Harry's bed. It already seems like years ago. So much has happened since then; it doesn't even feel like the same lifetime anymore.

When I get to my room, I pick out a long purple skirt, and once I pick off the gold stitching with a needle it looks simplistic and peaceful- not reflecting the turmoil going on within me. I pick out a green shirt to go with it, relieved that I'm finally able to wear something other than red and gold. Unfortunately, the same doesn't go for my interviews and the chariot entry. Urgh. If I have to wear one more red and gold item of clothing...when are they going to realise that _red isn't my colour! _

I go over to the bathroom and open the cupboard. Glitters and sticks of different colours clatter onto the floor and I quickly scan the labels.

Make-up. Make-up is an extravagance that not even families like Harry's can afford. There's lipstick in every shade of red, pink and purple, and eye shadow and mascara too. I gaze, open-mouthed, at the lengths the Ministry goes to make themselves shallower, and shallower. Is it so imposible to be happy in your own skin? Apparently so in the Ministry.

I wonder about putting some on, and then decide against it. I'm about to turn away when I hear a feminine voice say:

"Good, so you've found the make-up. Time to make you look presentable."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I've had a LOT of problems with writing this chapter. And I mean, a LOT. So that's why it's taken so long. My computer is very old and it decided to destroy all my hard work this week...This is my 4****th**** copy or something stupid like that. Anyway, this is a lovely dose of girliness for everyone! I really enjoy writing about the make-up and the dresses...and especially Hermione's reaction to the whole thing. And Tonks. Tonks was really fun to write about.**

The Hogwarts Games

Chapter 7

_Hermione_

I'm attacked by my team of Stylists the instant I wake up. I fell asleep in my clothes, so it's easy enough to leap out of bed in alarm. A glance at the alarm clock beside me shows the luminous 5:00 that tells me it's way too early.

A woman with bubblegum pink hair stands before me. Her brightly coloured hair is cropped and spiky, and she has swirling purple tattoos on her arms, which I can see through the sleeves of the floaty lavender coloured dress she's wearing. Her eyes are an eye-catching violet. Her arm is around a man with natural looking brown hair, who has electric blue zig-zag tattoos covering his neck and face. There's also a yellow tint to his skin, which is more than likely to be surgical.

Standing a little way apart from the couple is another woman. Despite her 'wild' appearance, she seems lethargic, and even bored, as she looks at me. Her black hair is massive and frizzy, down to her shoulders in a cascade of black, streaked with orange dye and feathers. She has small black stars tattooed around her pale skin, and her yellow eyes are slit-like and narrowed. However, her body language emanates boredom, and her expression is dripping with sarcasm. She stares at me in an objective way, as though evaluating her raw material.

I shrink back in horror, wanting nothing more than to simply climb back into bed. I have to wonder at the craziness of these Ministry employees.

"Oh, relax," says the pink-haired woman brightly, "Yes, these two are grossly disfigured-that's the downside of being a spy- but I'm a closeted metamorphagus; I can change my appearance at will. I'm Tonks, by the way- _don't_ call me Nymphadora."

This speech, if anything, just freaks me out more, but the man smile slightly at me, and I feel instantly more at ease.  
"I'm Remus Lupin," he says, detracting himself from the woman named Tonks and reaching out to shake my hand.  
"And this is Hestia Jones," interjects Tonks, indicating the black and orange woman. Hestia doesn't move, except to roll her eyes almost imperceptibly. It would be imperceptible, if I wasn't the master of sarcasm detection.

I shift from foot to foot uncomfortably. I see a trunk behind them, which is no doubt full of make-up and other torturous supplies. I wince at the sight of it. The scent of hairspray is already thick in the air.

I'm confused-more than a little- by the three of them. I think back, mentally sorting through Tonks' rabble, trying to figure them out.

It hits me after a couple of seconds.

"What did you mean- 'The downsides of being a spy'?" I ask suspiciously.

"Well done, Tonks," mutters Hestia scathingly.

"Nothing, nothing. It's just...can you keep a secret?" Tonks asks quietly.

It's Remus who replies, and he sounds almost angry.

"Tonks, that's enough. Go and unpack the kit. We don't want any more trouble, not like with that Ginny girl."

"What happened with Ginny?" I ask.

"Couldn't find her," says Tonks, "We went into her room at about 5 this morning but she wasn't there. We searched around...Anyway, we'll ambush her later, when we've finished with you- we have a feeling she'll be back by then." She shares a sneaky glance with Lupin.

"What?" My interest piqued, I glare at them both, willing them to give in.

Tonks, apparently unable to keep a juicy bit of gossip to herself, relents quickly.

"We caught her with Harry!" she exclaims happily.

"WHAT?" I shout.

"They slept together last night!" Tonks says, still acting as though it's the best thing that could have possibly happened.

"What do you mean, they _slept together_? Like, _sleep _sleep, or...you know..."

"Oh, God, no," says Hestia suddenly, "Is that what people do in your Dormitory? No, Harry was awake, and he said that she had a nightmare and came to him. It's a tradition of theirs, apparently." She says all of this without interest.

"Why would it be a tradition?" I ask, "She only got chosen for the Games yesterday."

"Didn't you know?" Hestia replies, a glint in her eye, "It was her brother, Charlie, who got killed by a Basilisk a few years back." She doesn't seem grave, or remotely sorry about the affair.

"We need to get going," Remus replies, opening the trunk.

It's everything I imagined and worse.

It's a vision of hell. Waxing strips, hair dryers, curlers, straighteners, crimpers. Potions in vials and clear crystal bottles...The liquids are magenta, blue, pink and yellow.

"It's not much, but the make-up is in the bathroom. Although Sirius wants you practically 'au naturel'," gushes Tonks.

"Not much!" I squeak.

I find it impossible to tune out of her following assessment.

"You could do with a straightening potion. Or three. Then, when we've sorted out your...bushiness problem, we can re-curl into softer waves. Then we should really moisturise your face. It's still _covered _in grime, and you _must _have washed it by now. And your nails are going to have to be sorted out. You'll then have to be dressed in red and blue- but we can't do that with your make-up, you'll end up looking like a tart! Trust me, the blue eye shadow, red lips look...It doesn't work on anyone. If I...hmm, no. Anyway, Sirius will have picked out a perfect outfit for you. He's a genius, honestly."

Eventually, she pauses for breath. Remus adds his final judgement and Tonks squeals with excitement before pulling me and Hestia into the bathroom.

The two Stylists manage to overpower me, shoving me into the shower, and insisting that I wash my hair at least three times, with a different type of shampoo each time. The frothy pink bubbles of their specialised shampoo lather my hair, and their lavender scented body lotion feels foreign on my skin.

Once I'm out of the water and into a bathrobe, Tonks gets out her waxing strips- a.k.a. torture strips.

Bloody hell, it hurts. White hot pain streaking across my legs...But I won't let the tears fall.

"ARGH!" I scream, as a particularly hardened piece of wax rips from my legs, sending a fresh wave of pain shooting up my legs.

Meanwhile, Hestia is filing my nails- only to add fake ones on top! Admittedly, the patterns on the claws are gorgeous zig-zags of blue and red, and they're the prettiest things I've ever had on my hands, but I still feel like a mannequin as the two women zoom around me, pampering and altering wherever possible. A very grimy mannequin.

Once every follicle of hair (saving that on my head) has been removed from my body, and my legs are moisturised (something Tonks insists upon), they begin plucking my eyebrows, which are, unfortunately, just as bushy as my hair. As they work, Tonks chatters away like an excited bird while Hestia nods and glares at me.

"D'you think Sirius'll let us dye her hair red?"

"Would you like blue eyes...Or red? We've got the coolest contacts..."

Once my eyebrows are plucked, they blow-dry my hair- adding roughly twenty straightening potions and sprays in the process to try and prevent the bushiness.

Once it dries- straighter than I've ever seen it, but still not quite straight- Hestia ties it back into a painfully tight ponytail, and wipes my face with a stinging substance that smells like roses. Tonks begins dabbing concealer and tinted moisturiser onto my skin.

My transformation begins.

First there's a vat of foundation to be rubbed onto my face, in several different shades and bottles, and concealer and scented spray and teeth whitening solution (which tastes vile), and reddish rogue.

By the time they've finished the almost surgical procedure, I'm pretty sure that I have never looked more beautiful in my entire life.

"We're not done," says Tonks worriedly from behind me.

"I-I don't look like _me_," I can't seem to tear my eyes away from the foreign reflection in the gold framed mirror.

"Of course not!" says Hestia bluntly, "We couldn't have you looking like _that_!"

"Shut up, Hestia," snaps Tonks uncharacteristically, "Hermione, you're a beautiful girl- truly, you are. A natural beauty, and those are rare. You're just unique in that respect. Too unique for those Ministry idiots who wouldn't know beauty if it hit them in the face!"

I feel a rush of affection towards Tonks. She grins at me sympathetically, and I smile back.

Hestia grunts and pulls the band out of my hair, letting it fall loose again. Somehow it's still not quite straight, even after all of those lotions, but now it falls in soft, glossy waves. For some reason, the fact that my hair isn't straight makes my reflection seem more familiar. I wait anxiously for their verdict, though- what are they going to do, shave it all off and give me a wig to wear instead?

They surprise me, though.

"Gorgeous," breathes Tonks.

"It'll do," says Hestia.

She roughly grabs my arm and pulls me back into the bedroom, where Remus is talking to a black-haired man I've never seen before.

The unfamiliar man turns around, and by first appearances he is the most normal of all the Ministry Wizards I've seen so far. His black hair seems untampered with, running loose and curly down to his shoulders. The only tattooing that I can see are the faint golden swirls that adorn the edges of his face, and run down his muscular arms. He turns to me and smiles warmly.

"Good morning, Hermione. I'm Sirius Black, your fashion stylist."

I feel slightly safer with Sirius as my Stylist. He looks almost normal, which is an encouraging thought among the likes of Umbridge, Hestia and Remus. In the years before me, though, the outfits chosen by Stylists for Dormitory 12 have been gaudy to the extreme- because each House has to wear their House colours. I've seen lycra mini-dresses with diagonal blue and red stripes, and poncho style dresses which are red but when the Tribute span around blue frills spilled out.

Not that I care about what I wear. In only a few days, I'll be trying to murder a bunch of other kids, so, considering, I'm not really worried about what I look like.

But the Sponsors care.

If you don't look good, you don't get picked as a favourite. And I know that with my bossy, know-it-all personality, not many people are going to like me for anything my personality can offer.

So I resign to wearing whatever Sirius tells me to wear.

It's a quick- albeit slightly embarrassing- process of taking my measurements. It turns out I'm slightly lacking in the chest department, something I can honestly say I've never thought that seriously about before. I'm pretty tall, though, and Tonks compliments my willowy frame obsessively.

At the end of my inspection, Sirius waves everyone away impatiently, so it's just the two of us.

I glance around nervously, wondering what torturous dress he wants to force me into.

"I saw you volunteer for your sister," he says simply to me.

"Oh," I reply, having no idea what to say.

"I started designing a dress straight after I watched your Reaping. I guessed your measurements. But I really wanted to reflect your personality. Who you are."

"And who am I?" I ask. So far, all he's seen of me is that weepy, protective sister. I don't look forward to seeing my dress based on that assessment. What's it going to be, shaped like a teardrop?

"I saw that you were strong. Strong enough to not let the Ministry control you, or your family. You're not going to take any crap from the Ministry, or even from Voldemort himself. You're a fighter. You won't give up. In fact, I believe you might win."

He got all that from a five minute clip? Damn, he's good. He smiles at my startled expression.

"Shall we get you started with the last few pieces of make-up?" he asks. I nod dumbly, "Tonks!" he shouts.

Tonks comes back in, beaming at me.

"I looked at the pictures," are her first words, "She'll be gorgeous!"

Tonks runs into the bathroom and selects a few choice articles of make-up. The first two things are what looks to me like a paintbrush and pot of something red. Before I know what to make of it though, she's filling my lips in with the weightless red paint, somehow making them look fuller than they actually are. They discuss the effect for a few seconds, and then agree that they don't want much more on my face. However, Tonks rushes to the bathroom one more time to get a final 'finishing touch', as she calls it.

As she comes back, a see the red sparkle of something in her hand before she turns to Sirius.

"Is this what you wanted?"

"Exactly."

She sticks the mystery object to my face in a flash, and I still can't see what it is. A brush of black powder across my cheekbones and she steps back, pleased with her work.

"Look in the mirror," she trills excitedly, leading me over to the bathroom once more.

I have to gasp at the reflection. With my hair down past my shoulders, and the exceptional make-up, I have no choice but to admit that I look devastatingly, hauntingly beautiful.

Strangely enough, Sirius has captured my personality perfectly. Or at least, the burning hatred part of it. The red lips, the black powder...But most of all, the glittering red tear coming from my eye, which takes on the appearance of blood as it sparkles slightly in the light.

"Wow," I breathe. There's no other word for it, really. Wow.

I look like...Like a Goddess, or a faery, or something like that from one of those fantasy books that I never got to read.

_Hermione Granger, goddess of blood. _It's kind of catchy.

I turn away from my reflection, and walk back into the room.

Tonks is practically crying with joy by this point. I see why, when I catch sight of the dress lying out on the bed.

It's simple, I suppose, to those from the Ministry. Strapless, starting off light blue, and merging flawlessly into blood red at the skirt. The ball gown is long, but the skirt isn't poofy like I'd expect, and I can tell that it will easily reach my ankles. There is silver lining on the bodice, and gold stitching on the skirt.

It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life. And I get to _wear _it.

I run over and hug both Sirius and Tonks in turn.

"Can I try it on?" I ask, surprised by how much of a girl I've turned into in the last five minutes.

Fawning over _dresses_? Ugh, what have I become?

"I'd be offended if you didn't," replies Sirius warmly, jerking me out of my thoughts.

"I'll help!" Tonks says, picking up the dress and flashing to my side. She picks up the dress reverently, like it's a sacred item.

There's a hidden zip in the back, so the top fits my form perfectly.

The blue at the top of the dress is so light that it almost seems like ice, that melts into blood. It's just..._me_. My personality, who I am, in a dress.

"Remus!" Tonks yells happily, tears actually running down her cheeks.

Remus comes in, smiling, and I twirl for him, letting my dress spin out around me.

"Perfect," he says, grinning at Sirius, "You did a great job, Padfoot."

"Padfoot?" I ask quizzically.

"Don't ask," says Tonks, reaching on tiptoes to kiss Remus' cheek.

I'm overwhelmed slightly by the love of such a simple gesture. That love that I've never experienced. A hollow longing erupts in my chest. I'll never have that.

Then Tonks turns to me with a cheeky grin, and I have to smile back.

"We have to go," says Remus suddenly, "Ginny might be back by now!"

I look at the clock. 6am precisely.

"Do I have to take off the dress?" I ask grudgingly.

"Not for long," Sirius assures me.

"Yeah, the interview's tonight. And the chariot ride!" Tonks says, "That's when you'll get all your sponsors. In that dress, people will be flocking to give you their money! It'll all be perfect, trust me. But make sure you don't smudge your make-up!"

They leave, but Sirius stays.

"They won't need me there for a while," he says, in way of an explanation.

"Oh," I respond.

"And...I wanted to talk to you about the interview. Are you nervous?"

"Um..."

To be honest, I haven't given it a thought. I'm sure everyone will hate me either way.

"No? I suppose you're more focused on the Arena right now. But this interview, it's important. What's your angle?"

"Angle?"

"Yeah. Are you a fighter, a girly girl, a crier, arrogant, weedy...?"

"Um, none of them. I'm just me." I say, confused.

He sighs quietly.

"Imagine I'm the interviewer," he says.

"OK," I reply slowly.

"So, Hermione," he says, putting on a fake Ministry accent, "What do you think your chances of winning the Games are?"

"Well, I promised Marietta, so...I'll try. And that's all I can really do, right? Um, I dunno. Everyone else looks really good, I suppose," I gabble quickly.

Sirius shakes his head at me. I shut my mouth and shrug. I know I'm going to mess up the interview. I just have to hope that the sponsors will see my beautiful dress, and sponsor me based on that instead.

"Just talk to me," Sirius says.

"Well, when I was talking to my mother and Marietta, I promised Marietta I would win. That I'd try to win for her. And I'm not going back on that promise. I will try to come back to her. Besides, that's the whole reason I volunteered, isn't it. To keep her safe, to keep her happy...I don't know about my chances, though. Sometimes trying your best isn't good enough. And that's OK. There's nothing I can do about that. But I can promise that I'll try."

I realise I'm rambling again, and I look up from where my gaze is fixed on the floor.

Sirius is smiling at me.

"That's it," he says, "That's who you'll be. Down-to-Earth. Something the Ministry doesn't have nearly enough of, trust me."

"Down-to-Earth? In all this make-up?"

"It's a loose definition, I'll admit."

I pause, thinking it over.

"OK. Fine, I'll be 'Down-to-Earth', or whatever. It's better than nothing, I suppose."

"That's the spirit!"

Another pause. It's not awkward, though. He knows that I'm just thinking things through.

"Are you going to do the same for Ginny?" I ask suddenly, the thought barely forming before I blurt it out, wanting a answer, but then again, not wanting it at the same time.

"What?"

"Are you going to do the same for her? Tell her that you believe she can win, tell her about how you 'know' her?" I know better than to trust him. I should have suspected this from the beginning.

"I just found out another thing about you," says Sirius quietly, as opposed to answering the question, "You're not going to trust me, are you? Because I'm from the Ministry...Or just because you don't want to trust at all?"

It's true. I hate to admit it, but it's true. Much as I'd love to trust him, I've grown so unused to the practise, I just can't. Even though he looks almost like one of _us_, from Dormitory 12, scruffy, dark haired...He's still the enemy. Still part of the Ministry who sent me here in the first place. And even if he wasn't, I still wouldn't trust him. Because trusting means letting your defences down, letting someone inside your head, your heart. And I can't even let Marietta do that.

I realise I'm staring at my feet again, and I look up.

Only to find that he's gone.

And he never answered the question.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: So...I thought it would be ironic. Hermione loving her dress, and Ginny being less enthusiastic. Sirius is a bit weird with Ginny, but we'll find out why later on. Anyway, please REVIEW!**

The Hogwarts Games

Chapter 8

Even I can't stand it. A Gryffindor can only take so much prepping and pampering before they snap. Just like I'm about to. Either that, or choke on all the glitter and sticky lip-gloss.

I have to admit that Tonks is a genius with a make-up brush, and that Remus is brilliant with hair, but it's just a bit overwhelming.

My hair, normally wild and orange, is even wilder and oranger! It's still straight, but it's been back-brushed, or something, so that it puffs out around my head in a warrior princess kind of way...I look like a ginger lion. Tonks has gone a little bit mad with the gems, and there's now a pattern of red, orange and yellow sequins around my right eye, shaped like little glass droplets. My skin is paler than ever, and my eyebrows are now black and shaped, so that they frame my brown eyes with more distinction.

My lips are a deep, velvety red, as are the fake nails that now adorn my fingernails.

I look beautiful. And I look like I'm about to burst into flames.

And suddenly, red _is _my colour.

Sirius is studying me now, his grey eyes searching for perfection. It's hard to feel embarrassed, even though I'm naked. Despite the normalness of Sirius, he's still from the Ministry, and it's hard to see him as a person.

Every so often, he barks an instruction to Tonks or Hestia, or Lupin, and they will brush more white powder on my cheeks (in a vain attempt to hide my freckles), or they'll shoot a bit more hairspray through my hair. I think I might choke soon.

Finally, two and a half hours after their arrival, Sirius declares me perfect. But I know the torture isn't over yet. Especially when I see the dress.

It's a lovely dress, I suppose. Not spectacular or anything, like I was hoping. A red and orange strapless corset (the reason I assess the dress as torturous); with a black silk ribbon tie criss-crossing through the back, and a plain black skirt with seems to be a similar material. That's it. At the moment, I'm more impressed by my make-up.

I know he can see it in my face, and I try to hide it, to fill my face with admiration and praise. But the truth is, Tonks has been nattering about Hermione's dress since we started. And I'm kind of jealous. Her dress sounds simply _gorgeous. _My dress is just...

"You don't like it." It's not a question, it's a statement of fact.

I hesitate. So far, Sirius has been better than I could possibly have hoped for. A little distant, maybe, but I've valued his ideas. I want to be honest with him.

"I-I know you're going for simplicity, but if that was the intended effect, despite the colour of the corset, a subdued colour for the skirt would be...better. Black is such a striking colour on its own, even if it is a little dull- if you went for a brown, or even a rusty shade of yellow or red, it would make the dress look so much nicer!" I stop myself, feeling a blush spread across my skin as I realise how much I've let my passion for design show. And I'm not even that _good_!

"You're right, of course," Sirius says. I stare at him in shock, "A rusty gold, that would have fitted with your House colours nicely," I begin to reply, meaning to say that there's still time to change it, if we start now, but Sirius raises one finger to stop me, and continues, "That's what I would have done, if I'd wanted you to fade into the background. But I don't. I want you to stand out. Look a bit more closely at the skirt."

There's not much to look at, really. It's black, and long. I try to see the beauty that Sirius obviously sees. I really do.

The skirt seems to be made out of the same silky material as the ribbon in the corset. It has a light, floaty look to it. I reach out my hand to stroke it, my finger tracing the fabric, and my senses tingling as I register the stark contrast between the appearance, and the rough, coarse texture. I can only feel admiration for Sirius, running my hand along the deceptive fabric.

But I still don't see the point of it.

"Remember when you were Reaped?" asks Tonks suddenly, jerking me back to reality, "I came to Sirius right after. I'm no fashion designer, but I knew what had to happen. You had to be the girl on fire."

...

"What?"

"The girl on fire. I knew straight away. When I saw the passion you had for keeping Harry alive, that fiery passion that I could see burning just beneath the surface, and we just _had _to reflect that in your dress. Sirius was the one who came up with the design, of course- I just had the initial idea. I knew there'd be a way..."

"Explain?" I ask Sirius, knowing I won't get a straight answer out of Tonks.

"We're going to set the skirt on fire," he says simply.

"YOU'RE GOING TO SET ME ON FIRE!" I shriek.

"No," says Sirius calmly, "We're going to set your skirt on fire."

They're gone. I'm still wearing the killer dress; I can hardly breathe, but I'm more worried about my impending departure from the Earth by flame, if I'm honest.

Although Tonks, Lupin, and Sirius have all assured me several times over that I'm completely safe, I'm still not convinced.

I pace up and down the room. The rocking of the train, once soothing and comforting, is now a sign of how trapped I am. Trapped in the Ministry's clutches. I should have known Sirius was a mad man. Why else would he decide to _set me on fire?_

Finally, I get too agitated to be confined, and I swiftly walk through the corridors to Hermione's room.

"Bored?" she says as I wander through the door. I nod.

"Your dress is nice," I say. It's not. It is the singularly most exquisite thing I've ever seen in my life.

I love my dress, now that I know the plan, but I still think it's going to kill me. So having her dress would be desirable at this point in time.

"Thanks. Yours is nice, too, I suppose. Hey, come check out the window. We're getting near the Ministry."

"And about time, too," I mumble. Despite the speed of the train (which could be an illusion, and now that I think about it, probably is), we've been travelling solidly, and I can't wait to get off the train.

I move to where she's standing near the window. The countryside is blurring past us, but a looming grey shape is rising out of a nearby hill.

Some people say that the Ministry of Magic was once just one building, in central London. I don't know whether that's true, but nowadays the location is kept relatively secret, and it's a whole Wizarding town. It's for those lucky workers and their families who are utterly devoted to Lord Voldemort. It's a life of luxury in the Ministry. Not like at Hogwarts. Hogwarts is miserable, dejected, hungry, the Witches and Wizards who can be left to die. We're disposable.

What kind of despicable people must live there? So far I've met Umbridge, who I hate, Sirius, Lupin and Tonks, who seem normal, and Hestia, who just seems bored. But none of them seem quite sadistic enough to quite happily watch 24 innocent children die each year.

"So, do we get lunch?" I ask, trying to think of something interesting to say and failing miserably.

"In that...thing?" Hermione laughs, "I don't know what it's called, but it looks tight. How small is your waist!"

I look at the corset. She's right, I can't eat in it. I can barely breathe.

"Ugh. And I was so looking forward to making the most of having good food for once before we have to kill squirrels to eat."

Hermione winks.

And it's weird, because I kind of feel a friendship forming with a girl I'm supposed to hate.

It's a long day of waiting. But I'm OK, waiting with Hermione. Complaining about an itch in my face that I'm not allowed to scratch because of make-up while she breaks one of her fake nails and hastily glues it back on in a manner comparable to a five-year-old.

We talk about the glittering lights of the Ministry, getting closer and closer all the time. We talk about what will happen when we get there.

I've watched it enough times on TV to know. The Tributes will arrive secretly, without any photos or paparazzi. We will be taken to the Training Centre, our home for the next few days until we're shoved in the Arena. Once there, final make-up checks will be made by our Prep teams once we are in our new rooms, and the final preparations will be made.

The we'll go to the Town Centre, where the statue is. The statue of the Wizard crushing Muggles. Strange, really, that we are supposed to despise the Muggles, when without them, those of us trapped in Hogwarts would have died. And without proper wands, what else did Voldemort expect? For us to continue living like Witches and Wizards. And even the Ministry has too many aspects of Muggle life to count, even from what I've seen on the train so far. The TVs are the most obvious thing. But there are other things: the train itself, so obviously powered by Muggle inventiveness. And yet they still insist that we are a superior race. Yeah, right.

But there we will take part on the Opening Ceremony, sometimes called the Chariot procession. Even Chariots don't often come into it anymore. Since flying carpets were legalised again, they've been popular, and broomsticks and Thestrals, too.

The Opening Ceremony is the chance to show us all off, essentially. Each House goes, one by one, their Tributes side by side, in coloured dresses that reflect the spirit of their House (they're in the same colour), and the Ministry will watch, already working out favourites.

Then there will be an initial interview. During my time here, I will have to go through two interviews, one at the beginning, and one at the end. They have a different interviewer each year, each one weirder and more surgically enhanced than the last. We have no idea who it will be this year.

Then we might finally get some dinner.

I have no idea what I'm going to do about the whole thing. If we were to go on the assumption that I won't die during the Opening Ceremony, I haven't been told what to do about the interview. No-one's ever really liked me. Except for my family, and Harry, of course.

I just don't connect with people. I'm too giggly and girly for some, and too tomboyish for others. I can't win. Yes, I like sports, I love running round and getting muddy, hunting and riding a broomstick. I also love designing clothes, doing my hair, and I've loved playing with dolls since I was little. I would make them out of twigs and grass, and flowers. I would stitch little dresses for them out of the hems of my skirts, and I'd make them hair out of woollen socks. Much as I'd never admit it, I'd love to have one with me now. To calm me.

We have four days in the Ministry. Four days. Today doesn't count, of course. But tomorrow, the countdown begins. First we'll get our wand. A proper wand, one that actually does magic, one that will actually protect us, once we get in the Arena. Because that's our prize, isn't it. We get the option of living in the Ministry with our family, a thousand galleons, and magic. A wand, with magic to use at our disposal. Then we'll go to the Training Centre again, to the bottom floor, where we will be able to practise different survival skills, and magical skills.

We'll be practising those skills for the next day and a half. And then we'll be tested, almost. We'll show the judges what we can do, and hope that we get a good score. Out of twelve.

The scoring system is that the best girl of all the Houses will be awarded twelve points, and the worst skilled girl, the most likely to die, will be given one point. The same thing will happen for the boys. I'm not holding out much hope for my score. A six would be good, so I'm aiming for that.

Then, on our last night in the Ministry, we will have the closing interview. The last impression the Ministry population will have of us before the Games begin.

"Ginny!" Hermione hisses, probably for the seventh time already. I can become very unfocused when I'm daydreaming.

"What?" I ask, registering the darkening light, and the now imposing city that is almost right in front of us.

"We're almost there, you'd better get back to your room," she replies in a brisk, business-like tone.

"Yeah," I say, walking out of the room, anxiously waiting for the moment when I'll be pounced on by Sirius and Tonks, who'll be setting me alight.

Once I'm back in my room, everything seems to become a reality. Soon, as well as being set on _fire_- which gets more alarming by the minute- I'll also have to impress these crowds of people who I despise, by winning them over with my dress, which, did I mention, is going to be on FIRE? Well, maybe they'll notice me while I'm writhing on the floor in agony, trying to put myself out.

Great.

A movement from the corner of my eye causes me to spin round. It's Harry. I realise I haven't seen him all day, I've been too busy talking to Hermione.

"Wow," he breathes, taking in my appearance.

I must admit, having looked in a full length mirror, it does look pretty stunning.

But I'm still going to _die_!

"What was your stylist like?" I ask him.

He looks different to me, but in a complimentary way. Black, tight-fitting top, made out of an unidentified material that looks a bit like leather but could be anything, really. He has a black quiver of sharp edged arrows on his back, and black trousers which match the top.

It's quite sexy, actually.

"My stylist was a madwoman, honestly. Trelawney, or something. Kept rattling on about the fates telling her what outfit to put me in. I think it was just Sirius, really. He came in the middle of her waffle and told her to hurry up, speeded the process along a whole lot."

"Are they setting you on fire, too?" I ask.

"No. Just the tips of the arrows, so we match. I think they want you to be the focus."

"That's not fair."

"Oh, so you'll complain about that, but not the slaughtering of twenty-three innocent children?"

"That's not what I meant. You're being judged just as much, you deserve just as much as an entrance as me!"

If my plan is going to work, Harry needs sponsors, and you get sponsors by winning the hearts of people from the Ministry. And to win the hearts you need to make an entrance, to impress your memory on them.

If Harry doesn't get that, then it'll be hell for my plan to keep him alive.

"I'll be fine," he quickly assures me, seeing my face, and pecking me on the cheek, "And you'll be wonderful. You'll outshine everyone there."

I smile, and draw his face back to mine for a proper kiss.

"I'll see you there," he whispers against my mouth, and leaves.

It's only a few minutes before Tonks, Lupin, Hestia and Sirius come back. Tonks fusses over how I've dislodged one of the gems, while Lupin attempts to restore some order to my hair.

"How long have I got?" I direct the question at Sirius.

"We'll arrive in about ten minutes, and we're going straight to the Opening Ceremony. You should be there in about half an hour."

It's one of those moments when I wish I'd prepared better.

They keep working at me, trying to repair the damage I've done, until I feel the train draw into the station. There's a jolt, only a slight one, but there's a new streak of unwanted white powder along my hairline which has to be repaired before I can go anywhere.

Finally, though, they finish, and surround me like bodyguards, ushering me off the train.

On the station, I see the other Tributes in their outfits, and I can honestly say that no-one has done quite as good a job as Sirius. But sweet little Luna, in her light blue glitzy dress, looks the worst. There's nothing wrong with the dress, but it's not _her_. Her wide eyes, her dirty blonde hair, the radish earrings I saw, that was how unique she was, but her Stylist has turned her into the object of conformity.

...

It's very disorientating. I cling to Harry's hand as the Stylists bustle around me for the last time, making the final preparations for the Opening Ceremony. I can hear the booming voice of the commentator Barty Crouch Jr.

"Our first Tributes are from Dormitory 1: Gryffindor-Hufflepuff. They are CEDRIC DIGGORY and HANNAH ABBOTT!"

The Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Tributes are always favourites. They come from a Dormitory of Arithmancers, and their costumes are often managed in a tasteful way, despite the possible garish colouring.

"From Dormitory 2- Slytherin- we have DRACO MALFOY and FLEUR DELACOUR!"

There's a general murmur of appreciation. Not only are the Tributes well dressed, Slytherin is also the House that lives in the Ministry's pocket. They're instantly favourites to win.

Fleur looks particularly stunning, a floaty green dress wafts around her, her silvery blonde hair is piled high on top of her head and is adorned by a silver tiara.

"From Dormitory 3- Hufflepuff-Slytherin-Gryffindor, we have COLIN CREEVEY and KATIE BELL!"

Their outfits are unbelievably awful. The mixture of green, yellow, and red is never going to work, on either of them.

"Now, the Dormitory 4 Tributes!" yells Barty over the roar of the crowd, "The Slytherin-Hufflepuff Tributes are VINCENT CRABBE and PANSY PARKINSON!"

They both look horrible. Crabbe is fat, sneering and he sticks his middle finger up at the crowd, and Pansy is almost as bad.

And then it's us. Sirius comes up behind me.

"Ready?" he whispers.

"No!"

But as the flames swallow my skirt, I only feel a faint, tickling sensation. Harry's arrows are set on fire, too, and we step onto our chariot.

"Hold my hand?" I plead. I think I'll fall over if I can't hold onto him.

He takes my hand in his and we roll into the main square. At first, no-one can see the fiery trail emitting from my skirt, but then the see the fire streaking out from behind me, and they gasp.

Silence.

"And, from Dormitory 5, Gryffindor, we have Ginevra Weasley, and Harry Potter," Barty's voice is unnecessary. They all know who we are already. I can hear the rustling of programmes as the flick through to find our names.

And then a cheer goes up. A massive cheer, unlike anything I've heard before. And then they're screaming my name- Harry's name, too, but mostly mine- and I wave with my free hand, smiling in response despite how despicable I find them all. I sashay my hips from side to side, letting the fire twirl out from it in patterns. The crowd goes wild. I wave some more, smile wider, the love me. Harry keeps hold of my hand, keeping me steady when I feel like I might topple any moment.

"Ginny! Ginny! GINNY!" the crowd chant, and I know it's all because of the dress, I know that they're still baying for my blood, but it feels nice, to have people chanting my name.

I can still hear Barty announcing the other Tributes, but the focus is still on me and Harry.

Until we round the corner, travel out of sight, and even then, I can still hear the roar from the crowd.

"You know, I think we might have a chance of getting sponsors!" I say breathlessly to Harry.

"That was...something else," he replies with a nod, his face wide open and glowing. Maybe in a few days we'll be fighting to the death, but right now, in a dress with a still burning skirt that didn't kill me, I can't feel the anxiety or the guilt yet.

Sirius is waiting for us as we round another corner and jump off the chariot, going under the cover of a tent. The fire is quickly extinguished, and I have to hug Sirius.

"Thank you! You were amazing!"

And then I run over to where Tonks is fiddling with make-up and I hug her too.

"Well, there's no doubt that you'll be getting sponsors now!" Tonks laughs, patting me on the head.

I turn back to the screen, waiting for the moment when Hermione will come out in her blood dress.

"We're onto Dormitory 7 now. We had Slytherin-Gryffindor before you, and they were horribly dressed, someone called Goyle, and a girl called Parvati."

"I remember her!" I say, "She was the one who's twin sister was in another House, and she..."

"They probably executed young Padma, yes. She was present at another House's Reaping," Lupin says. It seems as though he thinks this is normal, acceptable, but then I see the anger in his suddenly hardened brown eyes.

I turn back to the screen, where Barty has just announced the arrival of the Hufflepuffs. Zacharias Smith and Lavender Brown. Dormitory 7. Neither of them look like a threat...

Then it's Dean and Cho from Slytherin-Ravenclaw, looking elegant and beautiful in their clothes of blue and misty green.

Then it's Gryffindor-Slytherin-Ravenclaw, a typically well performing House, despite it's 'Triple House' nature. Seamus and Angelina are the Tributes, and they're followed by Neville and Alicia from Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw.

I have to look away as the Dormitory 11 Tributes come on screen. Luna, in her pretty yet choking dress, next to the burly figure of Krum...It hurts my eyes to watch.

And finally, it's Hermione and Ron.

**A/N: Please review, even if it's just to comment on how awful you think my choice of Housing is!**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: I think the last chapter was a bit crappy, to be honest. Hopefully this one's better! And remember to review! **

The Hogwarts Games

Chapter 9

"_Remember, they'll be the ones who are cheering for your death in a few days time. I'm not saying you should make them enemies, I'm just saying...Don't become too attached."_

Those were the last words I got before Sirius had to go round the other side to look for Ginny. I'm still trying to decipher the message, even now as the Chariot begins to roll out into the streets. Ron has hold of my hand, and I can't seem to recoil from his touch; it's strangely comforting.

I take a deep breath.

My face appears on the screens before I round the corner. I hear the collective gasp of the audience. The silence. The silence continues as we round the corner, as they see my dress, alongside Ron's black suit, lined with red. A kind of collective hush that I've never seen the likes of before, on a scale that blows my mind.

Is it because they are entranced by us? Or is it because they're surprised that the underdogs are coming out fighting? Because I can see in the screens that we look stunning, almost haughty in our demeanour.

And I understand Sirius' words. They're not our friends. They're sending us to die, and we're going to protest that until the end. I hold my head high, and the audience breaks into tumultuous applause, but I grip Ron's hand, and neither of us respond. We simply stare ahead. And I see that this was the plan for the dress all along. Right now, I do look ruthless, I fit my dress. I'm full of bloodlust, and I'm glacial, both at the same time.

I'll be the memory of the night. Unless something huge happens in the interview, they'll be left with this sight of me.

Ron squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. I can feel my legs shaking beneath my dress, and it feels nice to have him there, like an anchor weighing me down to the spot.

We listen to the roars of the crowd as we round the corner, and we don't respond to our murderers.

It's only another corner to go, and when we get there, I naturally lean in to hug Ron, out of sight from the crowd.

"There's no way they'll forget us now," he whispers into my ear.

Warning bells go off in my head, I start to pull away again. I can't become close to Ron, because I'll have to kill him eventually, for Marietta. I shouldn't care about him. The boy with the bread.

"Hermione!" Ginny runs at me, almost knocking me off my feet with her hug, then pulling away, almost embarrassed, "You were amazing! That alone will have gotten you hundreds of Sponsors! And you've still got the interview yet! Just...wow."

"Uh, thanks," I say awkwardly to Ginny, moving around her and walking to where Sirius is standing, smiling, "Was that what you wanted?" I ask him.

"And more. You were amazing. You both," he addresses Ginny as well, she blushes, "blew everyone else out of the water tonight!"

"What about me and Harry?" Ron says jokingly from behind us.

"You'll storm the interview, Ron. Just remember what we discussed with Hagrid, you'll be great. No-one will forget you after that," Sirius assures him.

"Hagrid's here? And sober enough to give _advice_?" I ask in surprise.

"Yeah, I'm 'ere," I turn to see Hagrid's massive form, "An' I'm bloody sober, too. Not by my own free will, 'course."

"We've got to go!" Tonks suddenly yells, running over, ""I've already sent Harry off to the Interview Hall! Come ON, all the other Tributes have left already, and if you're late, it'll be me who gets the blame, I just know it!"

"Where's...?" I begin to ask, in response to her last statement, which seems unfair. Technically, Umbridge should be the one ushering us from place to place. I wonder about her absence, because I haven't seen hide nor hair of her since the train.

...

"_My Lord," she whispered, "The hag will be arriving shortly, with the news."_

"_She is not fast enough, Bellatrix. Next time you will see to it that she is prompt," he said in his snake-like voice._

"_Why must you have this information, My Lord? Why now?"_

"_Things are happening at Hogwarts, things that I do not know about, things that I cannot control," he hissed._

"_But, how could...how can that be? You know everything that goes on at Hogwarts."_

_The snake slithered along the table, its tongue flicking out to taste the scent of the air._

"_Minister," Bellatrix tried again, "You eradicated the Order of the Phoenix years ago..."_

"_And yet still it exists," he hissed sharply, "And yet still it works underground, recruiting members and trying to fight me off. Not that it ever will manage it. But I was not referring to that. I was referring to the...inter-connections of Houses. I had aimed to keep them separate, to keep them secluded from one another. But my plan has failed."_

"_Couldn't you move them all to different residences?" suggested Bellatrix breathlessly. _

"_It would be incomprehensible. To keep track of so many different places at once. No, it is so much simpler the way it is. We must simply enhance the segregation, make it stricter, more punishing."_

_Just then, the door creaked open, and a woman all in pink waddled in._

"_My Lord," she said excitedly, "I have the letter!"_

"_Good. Whatever Severus might have to say to Ron, or Hermione, is pivotal to this operation. In the past I have found him to be faithful, but this could change all of that. Well done, Dolores."_

...

There's a long car waiting for us when we walk out onto the street. It's black, and looks like it doesn't corner well.

"You're taking us there in a LIMO?" Ginny shrieks. So that's what it's called.

Ginny grabs my hand in excitement and pulls me inside the stretched car. But once I'm inside, I can see what all the fuss is about. It's huge. Big enough for me, Ginny, Ron, Tonks, Lupin, Sirius and Hagrid. I'd say that last one was a miracle. We all sit down in seats that seem to line the walls of the...car, and there are things that I never expected to see, including a bar (that I tactfully seat Hagrid away from), and a TV, which is playing the highlights of the opening Ceremony on a loop.

Conversation is scarce. The 'limo' can't drive quickly enough, and we are silent. Occasionally Tonks asks a shallow question, or Ginny tries to lighten the mood, but it doesn't work.

The building I watch grow closer through the window is obviously the Interview Hall, and it is swarmed by people as we keep driving (how they got from the Opening Ceremony to the Interview Hall so quickly, I will never know).

Our Chauffer drives us around the back, and we get out of the car, one by one. I climb out second to last, just before Sirius, and I start to walk towards the back door, but Sirius catches my arm before I can get there.

"You ought to take more care of this," he says, handing me the letter that I remember Ron's dad giving me.

"H-how did you...?" I begin to ask, but he cuts me off again.

"I have a letter of my own for you. I'd ask that you don't read it until you're in the Arena," he says, passing me an envelope, "Things are only just beginning to make sense, people are only just starting to come together again. But we need your help."

"This was what Tonks was talking about," I reply suddenly, "You're only doing this because," I lower my voice, "You want to kill Voldemort."

"To do such a thing would be impossible."

"You didn't answer the question. Again."

"Hermione, I didn't take this job to overthrow Voldemort. I took it because I want to give you and Ginny a chance. A chance at survival in this damn world where no-one smiles. And if getting rid of a Minister who'd kill you in a heartbeat if you stepped out of line...Well, you think about it. And when you read the letter, it might make sense."

"Yeah, maybe," I say, beginning to stalk off.

"That's not what your father would have said," he calls after me.

"I don't give a damn," I respond, but of course, my brain begins to whir. How did he know my father? How did that encounter go so wrong? What's in the letter?

The letter.

I resist the temptation to open it, tucking it into the secret pocket that Sirius put into my dress. Sirius. I need to apologise. I was unnecessarily harsh on him, he's just trying to help, and he's already made me memorable.

But before I can, Tonks has grabbed my arm and is pulling me 'backstage', into a pink room which reminds me of Umbridge and makes me want to vomit. Everyone is already here, and in the corner, I even see Umbridge, who blends in the rose coloured walls, and looks slightly dishevelled. I don't really pay attention to her, choosing instead to go and sit on the couch next to Ron.

The couch, like everything else, is bright pink, and it almost physically hurts me to have to sit on it. Ron is staring at the TV screen, much like Ginny and Harry are doing from the corner, wrapped in each other's embrace.

"And now our courageous Tributes are almost ready for the Interviews! As you all know, we have a different Interviewer each year, and this time it is the House Elf who is owned by none other than our Dormitory 2 Tribute himself...it's DOBBY!" the announcer yells on screen.

I see a small House Elf get kicked onto stage- he's obviously unwilling to go. It's a brightly lit stage, around which there are stands which are already full of people. There are screens all around the room onto which Dobby's face is projected at a hundred different angles.

"Bad Dobby, bad Dobby!" He shuffles over to the bright red sofa, and looks into the faces of almost everyone in the Ministry.

"W-welcome!" Dobby squeaks, and you can't help but feel for him. His wide green eyes are brimming with fear and his voice cracks. What could possibly have made him so scared? "T-to the Hogwarts Games. Tonight we will, we'll meet the Tributes. May the, um, odds be ever in their favour!"

"We'd better go," Ron whispers into my ear.

"What? Why? We're not on until last!"

"It doesn't work like that. C'mon," he says, standing up and reaching for my hand. I take his and pull myself up from the couch, and we grab Harry and Ginny, too, before walking down the corridor towards a door which is clearly marked: 'Stage Entrance.' We dither outside for a few minutes, before the door bursts open and a frantic looking woman starts to hurry out, before stopping and seeing us.

"What the hell are you doing out here? Get in there!" she practically yells in a high-pitched squeal.

It turns out that 'Stage Entrance' actually means a room that adjoins the stage, where _every other _Tribute is standing, glaring at us. I suppose we're a bit late.

"Where _have _you been?" another House Elf scolds us, her hands on her hips, "We were meant to start 2.3 minutes ago, and you've been holding us up! Now, places everyone!"

Everyone begins to shuffle into a neat line. I retreat to the back and position myself in front of Ron.

"Good luck," he whispers.

I give a curt nod in return.

Because I can just feel myself warming to him. I can feel myself thinking of him as more of a friend than an enemy. And that's not good. I _have _to win. For Marietta.

I listen to them call out each name, one by one. I see Hannah Abbott, in her frilly yellow dress, and Angelina Johnson, looking shifty and uncomfortable, and people like Seamus, who gabber a tiny bit too much.

I can't even pay attention to Ginny or Harry's interviews. My palms are sweating too much, and my eyes are beginning to become unfocused.

_Think about what Sirius told you, _I think to myself, _be yourself. Be down to earth._

The line keeps moving forwards, and my eyes keep flitting around the room, I'm looking at the TV, the floor, the walls, the light fixture that keeps buzzing from the Muggle electricity that keeps it running.

"Calm down," Ron murmurs into my ear, "You'll be fine."

I'm so worked up that I simply fling my arms around him, and hold the tears in against his chest. He seems surprised- who can blame him, I'm surprised, too- but he holds me against without comment. I try to think back to a time when I've let Oliver hold me like this...I can only think of one time.

"_Hermione! What's wrong?" _

_He's running towards me, and I'm sitting by the little pool of water, the tears flowing freely down my cheeks._

_He grabs me and pulls me into his arms, starts rocking me gently._

"_Shh," he says into my ear, "It's OK. Everything's alright."_

"_No! No, it's not! I didn't realise, I forgot..."_

"_Don't worry. It's going to OK, Mione."_

I never told him why I was crying. He never asked for an explanation. It seems stupid to me now, but I remember the loneliness I'd felt in that moment. I'd only ever been to the little collection of water with my father. And the last time I'd gone with him had been the day before his death.

"_Come on, Hermione, hurry up!" _

"_Daddy, you're going too fast!"_

"_No I'm not, you're just too slow!" my father says, starting to jog away from me._

"_Daddy!" I squeal._

_He laughs and slows down for me, reaching out his hand for me to take. _

"_Where are we going?" I ask._

"_It's the best place in the world, sweetie."_

_It's further into the forest than we normally go. He lifts me over fallen logs and holds my hand when I climb on unstable rocks...And when I fall off them. He laughs when I climb trees and applauds when I reach the top. _

_And then, finally we reach...a small lake. The surface glitters in the sunlight; it's a perfect blue, and I squeal again in delight._

"_Can I swim in it?"_

"_As long as you don't tell your mother. You'll have to be careful though. Even if it's not very deep."_

"_I won't, I promise!"_

_Two hours later, and we're sitting on the bank, I'm giddy with excitement, and am soaked through. _

"_Daddy, how did you find this place?"_

"_My best friend showed it to me."_

"_Who was your best friend? Do I know him?" _

"_No. He was...Can you keep a secret?"_

"_Of course! We're not supposed to go the Forest, and I don't tell anyone, do I?"_

"_Fine! My best friend was from a different House!"_

"_That's illegal!" I gasp._

"_Yes. He's gone now, though."_

"_Where?"_

"_I can't tell you that, sweetie. Come on, it's getting late. I've got work tomorrow!"_

Best friend. Oh God, no bloody way.

Sirius.

It doesn't take a genius to work it out. Who my Dad's best friend was.

Maybe I'm making links where they don't exist, but Sirius and my Dad certainly knew each other, Sirius said as much when he was giving me the letter.

"Hermione," Ron's voice is soft and gentle, and I pull away, embarrassed.

"Sorry," I mutter quickly, turning away and filing back into the line.

All I want right now is to be able to talk to Sirius. To ask him for the truth. But I've blown it for tonight; I've possibly blown it until I get into the Arena and open the damn letter! What if he just doesn't talk to me as he designs outfits and gives me the cold shoulder until I leave?

I wonder, if my suspicions are correct...What happened? How did they meet? What House was Sirius in? I suppose that their friendship was severed when Sirius left for the Ministry...But why did Sirius leave? How did he get picked to leave? I've never thought of it that way before, the Ministry taking people away from Hogwarts to live in the luxury...Did Sirius get to stay with his family? Did he even have a family?

There's no way of focusing now, not even as I'm shoved out into the bright lights of the stage and I hear the clapping and cheering of the crowd. I move along in a daze, reaching down to shake Dobby's hand and sitting down on the sofa awkwardly in my massive dress.

"Hermione Granger?" Dobby says.

"Uh, yeah." I try to focus, to stop thinking about Sirius for _one bloody minute _so I can get this interview over with.

"Hermione, you've come from the- the House that favours courage and intelligence over everything else. How will you transfer these skills into the Arena?"

"I don't really know. I'm smart, I suppose, but I'm book-smart...And I've never thought of myself as...as _courageous _or anything. I think it's more about what you do once you're inside the Arena. And you just can't predict that."

Silence follows, and I don't know whether that's a good thing or not.

"OK, so, Hermione, what would you say your special skill is?"

"Um, retaining knowledge. And reading. But the library at Hogwarts is pretty limited nowadays, they should really work on that!"

"But the library at Hogwarts has over a thousand books!" This causes some titters from the audience.

"But they're not books of importance. There are so few spell books, and all I can ever seem to find about historical Wizarding events is an autobiography by the Minister himself."

...

"_Well, well, well," his long fingers laced themselves together as he watched the girl on screen talk about his autobiography. He'd published it, of course, with the intention of keeping the truth from those at Hogwarts, and from those at the Ministry. But this girl, she could see past it. Maybe not all the way to the truth, but she could see enough that she was dangerous. Too dangerous to keep alive for too long._

_And the House Elf, the insignificant little brat he'd borrowed from Lucius, he was doing nothing to make things better. In fact, Dobby seemed to be helping Hermione gain support. He asked her question after question about Hermione's little sister, Marietta, making the audience sympathise as the Dormitory 12 Tribute spread lies about his regime. _

_Well, she wasn't lying. But he'd been lying for so long that the lie had become the truth. To him, and to his people. _

_He was going to have to fire Dobby after this. Or not. It was nice to save the galleons on paying an actual Interviewer._

_Just then, a movement flickered in the corner of his eye._

"_My Lord," the man came through the door, the Announcer of the Games: Barty Crouch Jr., one of the most trusted Death Eaters, "My Lord, I have news."_

"_And what is that news," he hissed, turning his chair around fully, "Have you reclaimed the letter, have you dealt with Umbridge?"_

"_No. But we watched an exchange between Hermione, and the Stylist, Sirius. There was no sound, but he gave her two letters, one of which we believe is the original one."_

"_What does this matter to me?"_

"_We need to reclaim it before she enters the Arena. I volunteer to do it myself."_

"_No. It must be someone that the girl trusts. Umbridge has failed with that task, obviously. Bring me one of the Stylists. Not Sirius. Bring...Nymphadora Tonks."_

...

"Thank you for your time," Dobby squeaks, and I practically run off the stage in my haste to get away. Yes, I was myself, but I said a ton of things that could be taken the wrong way, could be turned against me by any number of Death Eaters, or even the Minister himself.

"How did it go?" Ron asks as he passes me on his way to the torture zone.

"You saw it," I reply sourly

"You were good."

"And you'll be better," I say, going out of the door and back into the corridor, planning to get as far away as possible before gorging myself on whatever Ministry food they happen to have lying around. I don't want to have to think about what position I've just put myself in, or the position I might've put my family in. What was I thinking? Talking about that bloody book like it was untruthful, biased, whatever.

You _don't _piss off Lord Voldemort.

And he was obviously watching. I mean, does the guy actually have anything better to do.

As I walk quickly through the corridors, I see Tonks running towards me, alarm clearly on her face.

"Tonks...?" I begin to say.

"Not here, Hermione. We're being watched. And we're _both _in danger if we're caught.

**A/N: Yeah, that's it. Now, I need your help. As well as reviewing your lovely things and telling me how amazing I am (Yeah, right), I want you to say what Houses you think Sirius, Remus, Tonks and Hestia should be in. Because I've been a bad author and I haven't planned that part yet! Thanks 3**

HHouse HH


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Sorry for the loooooong wait. But here it is, I hope it's OK!**

The Hogwarts Games

Chapter 10

Hermione's been crying. Now _there's _something I never expected- and her interview wasn't even that bad! Not as bad as mine, anyway…

_My palms are sweating as I stumble out into the bright lights of the stage. Dobby the House Elf is attempting a smile, his mouth curving into a painful grimace as he welcomes me onto the stage. His eyes are welling._

"_So…Ginny Weasley. The Girl on Fire. You've made quite an impact already!"_

"_Oh, God, really? Well, that's all down to Sirius, my Stylist, I suppose. And Tonks. She came up with the idea. It's nothing to do with me…"_

_I know already it's the wrong thing to say. But there's no taking it back now. However, you can feel the collective exhalation of the audience as they realise that I'm not their Star._

"_So…What do you reckon your chances are of winning?" Dobby asks, trying to salvage the interview._

_But it's too late._

"_Me? A Victor? No way! I can barely survive at _Hogwarts, _and there I don't have twenty three other people trying to kill me!" I laugh, and Dobby looks mortified. My Stylists should tape my mouth shut next time._

"_B-but, surely you have some strategies you could use to win?"_

"_I wouldn't tell you if I had any! But, let's just say, I don't think you can sew people to death!"_

_No laughter from the audience. Naturally. _

"_Oh. So, what about you and the other Tribute from your Dormitory. Harry? There seemed to be something there…"_

"_We're…very close friends."_

Oh, my God. Could it have gone any worse?

_Very close friends? _I can already hear the gossip around the Ministry:

Slut, slut…

Bit late to tell them I didn't mean it in that way…

Oh, God.

I decide to try not to think about it.

They still seem to like me, though. I can see the initial poll being carried out on the TV. I'm not last, at least.

I suppose it was the dress that carried me through. Sirius ripped some strips out of the skirt before I was forced onstage, and the crowd loved it. Before I started talking, that is.

Anyway.

Hermione's eyes are red, that's the giveaway. Her hair has become messier, as though she's been running her hand through it. And she's sitting in the corner, her face closed off and distant.

Ron tries in vain to talk to her, but she barely responds, except to shake her head jerkily at him- so Ron comes to sit next to me and Harry instead.

I'm seated on Harry's lap, and his fingers are running through my hair, absent-mindedly. It's soothing. I lean my head back against his shoulder, into the crevice between his neck and collarbone.

We're in the pink room again, and I hate it.

I've never liked pink. It's always seemed like a deceitful colour, if that makes any sense.

But I doubt my opinion really matters to anyone else.

It's horrible all the same, though.

Around the room are me, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Tonks, Lupin and Sirius. Umbridge and Hestia are nowhere to be seen- they've disappeared again, which is probably a good thing, as Tonks is seemingly oblivious to the fact that her hair has turned jet black. She's told me all about being a Metamorphagus, and also about the prejudice against her kind in the Ministry.

She seems to be in some kind of trance, though- her purple eyes are wide and staring; staring without seeing.

Something's wrong.

You can tell by the look of horror that is etched into the faces of both Tonks and Hermione. You can tell by the atmosphere that has fallen over the room; heavy and suffocating. You can tell by the looks Tonks shares with Lupin, looks full of terror and hopelessness.

Ron nervously clears his throat- an attempt to break the silence, I guess- but no-one responds, and he once again lapses into silence.

...

_Arthur Weasley sat, next to the wardrobe, running the folds of green fabric through his hands. The bag of green clothes Ginny had found earlier was next to him._

_What had he done? What had he done to deserve the ripping apart of his family, not once, not even twice, but four times? He supposed he deserved it. For the things he'd done._

_Hogwarts life was all about money. That much Arthur knew for sure. And Molly had had money- inherited, of course. She'd spent it all to get out of her Dormitory. She'd bribed the Head Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy, to let her move to Gryffindor-Ravenclaw. And then Arthur had met her._

_Because once you get out of the Slytherin Houses, it's a hell of a lot easier to find out about the Order._

_And she'd found it. Same way as he had, really; searching for a way to get out of Voldemort's overpowering regime._

_He'd taken the clothes. She'd been a Slytherin-Gryffindor, and he'd promised to hide all of her green Slytherin outfits, so that no-one would ever find out about her past._

_They'd married in secret. The Forbidden Forest, to be exact. But disaster had struck when Molly had fallen pregnant, no less the six times, once giving birth to twins. He'd had to re-marry so that he could keep the children, keep Molly. He'd fake married another Order member from Gryffindor, and he'd kept Bill, Charlie and Ginny._

_Molly never married anybody else. She managed to use spells and potions to conceal each pregnancy in turn, and she'd adopted out her children to other Order members._

_But now two of his children were about to enter the wretched Games, when one was dead already._

_And the fourth tragedy? The third son, Percy, had been adopted by Hestia Jones, but he'd turned his back on her and the Order, to become a Gamemaker, and there he was now, the Ministry's slave, about to send two of his siblings to their deaths._

_What had he done to deserve it?_

_..._

The Training Centre, our new home, has twelve floors, not including the basement, which is the _actual _Training Centre, where we'll learn the skills that could well help us to survive. There's a floor for each House, and this means we'll have to split up from Ron and Hermione, as they'll be on the top floor, and we'll be on the fifth.

There's a Muggle lift in the lobby. It looks as though it's made out of crystal, and the buttons glow in a way I can only identify as magical as we step inside.

Umbridge still hasn't turned up, but Hestia's caught up with us by now. Hestia and Lupin are assigned to Harry and me, and Tonks makes sure to put herself and Sirius with Ron and Hermione. I don't mind, really. I like Lupin, but Hestia's been getting on my nerves since hour one.

We get out of the lift before Ron and Hermione do, and we immediately enter our personal living room for the next few days.

To say it's luxurious would be an understatement.

I'm pretty sure those are pure silk hangings.

Not that I've ever seen actual silk before.

It's in our House colours, obviously- as if we need reminding of where we've come from. The sofas are gold and the soft, fluffy carpet is a deep red colour. There are red armchairs and the walls are a tasteful gold, not the commonly accepted yellowish colour.

There's never been a nicer slaughter house.

I see doors leading into other rooms; see a door with my name on it. I suppose it's my bedroom (and probably bathroom, too), but I can't bring myself to go inside just yet.

I sit down on the golden sofa, feeling more than a little disgusted by the luxury of it, and I cover my face with my hands wearily.

Suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I look up to see Lupin smiling down at me.

"You'll be fine in Training tomorrow. You'll blow them all away," he says comfortingly.

"I'm not good at anything, though," I reply, voicing my thoughts for the first time.

"You're an excellent flier," Harry chips in.

"Not as good as you," I counter quickly.

Harry glares at me. He hates it when I put myself down.

"You're a great hunter."

"So what? What if we're put in the Arctic or something stupid like that? The Arena could be anything! What use is hunting there? I'm not good at anything useful, like hand to hand combat, or using a knife, or a bow and arrow! And besides, I'm _still _not as good as you!" I'm irritated, almost angry at him.

"Just because I've had more practise!" he replies heatedly.

"So what!" my voice rises until it's almost a shout, but I can't seem to help myself, "It's not like I'm going to have a chance for practise anymore! If it's a competition between you and me...We both know who's going to win."

"Only because you insist on _sabotaging _yourself!" Harry yells back angrily, "Don't you realise that I care about you! I volunteered to keep you safe...Doesn't that mean anything to you? Can't you even understand how much I love you?"

"Living without you would be worse than dying." My voice is lower now, I can't summon any more anger at him. And I realise that the sentiment is ridiculous, but it is undeniably true.

"Don't be so melodramatic."

"I'm serious! What the hell else do I have to live for in this Goddamn world that only exists inside a bloody _castle_!" tears run down my cheeks against my will, I wipe them away quickly, "My Dad can't stand to look at me, my brother still cries at night over Charlie, who, in case you haven't noticed, is dead! I don't have any friends. I've got no future, no money. You were...You _are _the only fragment of light in my life. I'd rather die...I'd rather die than lose you. And not just because I love you, either! Because you're the only person I know who's ever talked about standing up to- to _him. _Voldemort. You're the only one who brings me hope, hope for our House, for the whole of Hogwarts, even! It's not just me who needs you. You're all anyone's got. They need you a hell of a lot more than they need me."

"You could do it without me," Harry croaks, and I'm surprised to see that there are tears forming in his bright green eyes, so unlike either of his parent's.

Lupin clears his throat, and we both whirl around, we'd forgotten he was there.

"I think you've both forgotten the Magical element of these Games. You have no idea about your skills with a Wand until you're handed one! You've done enough theory at Hogwarts that you should be able to master the basic spells, and the Instructors are there to teach you everything from 'Accio' to 'Avada Kedavra'," Lupin says, almost darkly, there's a slight edge to his voice.

"We've got three days," I reply sourly, "There's not enough time."

"I'll work you all through the nights, too, if I have to," Lupin grins, "Now off to bed. You'll be getting your wands tomorrow."

...

_Lupin watched them wearily as they parted to go into their rooms. Harry and Ginny. He'd known them as children, but as he'd been transferred to Ministry with Sirius, Tonks and Hestia a few years ago, he hadn't seen them since they were...well, he couldn't remember when he'd last seen them._

_When had it all become so damn complicated?_

_A small growl escaped his lips, but he quickly stifled it. A quick glance at the window told him it wasn't a full moon, he was safe. _

_He rubbed his temples again, he had no idea what to do with himself. He needed someone to open up to, someone who'd listen..._

_Tonks._

_He knew he shouldn't leave Harry and Ginny alone, but he reasoned with himself: they were old enough to look after themselves, after all._

_Quietly, he tiptoed to the door, letting it creak ever so slowly open before he got into the lift. Pressing the '12' button, he relaxed against the wall, he eyelids drifting shut. Nest next noise he heard we the sound of the doors opening and the muffled cry of: 'Remus!'_

**Her eyes widened in alarm and she searched the room quickly in case anyone was watching. Now was _not _the time to explain to Ron and Hermione. Especially not Hermione. **

**She grabbed Remus' hand and dragged him out to the balcony before even Sirius could see them.**

"**What are you doing here?" she hissed, once the doors were closed.**

"**I had to see you."**

"**Why?" her voice was raised against her will, she shut her mouth quickly.**

"**I had to- Tonks..."**

"**No. We are _not _having this conversation again! I know what you're about to say, and I don't care. You're stuck with me now. It's your own fault!"**

"**That's not what I was going to say at all," said Remus, taking her hand once again.**

"**Liar."**

"**Fine, maybe I was. It's just...this is so dangerous! Why can't you go home?"**

**How to explain it, even to herself? She thought about life in the luxurious Dormitory 1. Gryffindor-Hufflepuff, the place where she'd never felt like she'd fitted in. **

"**I can't go home..." she started, "because then I'd be leaving you. And you'd be in danger. But that can't happen, 'cos I love you."**

**She stood on tiptoe then, and brushed his lips with her own. She felt his mouth curve into her smile and drew back, grinning herself.**

"**Fine..." Lupin said, "It was worth a try. But that wasn't the only reason I came here."**

"**Well, what was it, then?"**

"**What happened to you and Hermione, back then?"**

**She looked down, and remembered her exchange with the Minister for Magic himself, Lord Voldemort.**

"**He wanted the letter," she said simply after a pause.**

"**What letter?"**

"**Apparently Snape gave Hermione a letter. I'm supposed to hand it over. And then Sirius gave her one, too. Voldemort wants both."**

**Remus looked distraught.**

"**Tonks..." he started to say, but she cut him off.**

"**If I'm in danger, so what? I've been in danger this entire time, it's nothing new to me! I think that Hermione is the one in the most danger. But she won't be, not if we forge new letters so that they're perfectly innocent, and show those to him!"**

"**No! It's to risky! So many things could go wrong..."**

"**It's our only chance."**

**...**

When I wake up, I'm tangled in the red and gold sheets, covered in sweat that can only be the product of a nightmare I don't remember.

I brush the sticky covers off me, there's no chance of getting back to sleep now, so I get up and start to pace the room. It's big, and just as expensive looking as the living room, and that's all, really. There's a wardrobe that I can't be bothered to look in, a chest of drawers that's yet to be opened, and...

Voices coming from the living room.

I've never been one to sit and wait, so I tiptoe into my en suite, which I worked out is directly next to the living room.

I recognise the voices as soon as I press my ear against the wall.

"If he's simply telling her to look after Ron, at least it seems more innocent than him...I dunno! Telling her Ron's adopted or something...That could lead Voldemort to suspect Snape, more than he already does, I mean." I hear Tonks' voice saying, and then I hear a male voice, Lupin's, answer her.

"What about Sirius?"

"I can't come up with all of the ideas!"

"Shh! We can't wake them up, they can't hear!"

I know instinctively that 'them' means me and Harry, and as I momentarily wonder _why, _Lupin answers my question.

"If they hear, they'll both be in danger. We need to be careful, Tonks."

"Yeah, sure," she replies, I can almost hear her rolling her eyes.

"You know what, I think I'll go and check on them..."

I hear the scraping of a chair, and my heart leaps into my throat. Assuming Lupin visits my room first, I don't have enough time to run to the bed and make it seem as though I were asleep. My pulse races and my breath hitches, I run to the door of the en suite and lock it.

"Ginny?"

Crap. I turn around desperately, and I see the toilet. Lurching forwards, I press the flusher, and then I turn on the tap, washing my hands and arranging my face into an expression of innocence.

I slowly open the door, then, struggling to keep the blush out of my cheeks.

"There you are," he sounds relieved, "Get back into bed, you've got an early start tomorrow.

"Uh, yeah..." I agree, my voice cracked, I hope Lupin puts it down to my tiredness.

"I'll go check on Harry," he says, turning to the door.

I clamber back into the bed, my mind racing to take in the new information.

We're in danger, but from what? Couldn't they have explained a _little _more? Something about Ron being adopted...might have been just an example...Something about someone called Snape- but I don't have a clue who he is.

I might as well have not eavesdropped at all.

But there was something about...Voldemort. And of course, he's the centre of it all, isn't he? So why might Voldemort suspect Snape, and what do Lupin and Tonks have to do with it?

Have they done something wrong, against the law? And Ron...I vow to myself to ask him about the mysterious Snape...

...

The next thing I know, I'm awake, sunlight is streaming through the only window in my room, and Tonks is yelling from the living room.

"GET OFF YOUR LAZY BUTTS AND GET OUT HERE! YOUR WAND CEREMONY IS IN HALF AN HOUR!"

"Ugh..." I mutter groggily, rolling over again.

"GINNY WEASLEY IF YOU DON'T GET UP RIGHT NOW..."

Crap.

I jump out of bed, running my hands through my hair as I do so. I move in a blur as I rip my pyjamas off and change into a red top and jeans.

"GINNY!"

"I'M COMING!" I yell back, not bothering to brush my hair properly before I run out of the bedroom and into the living room, where Tonks is standing with newly erupted red streaks through her hair.

"Right," Tonks says, breathing heavily, apparently she's officially reassigned herself to me and Harry now, I can't see Hestia anywhere. Lupin is standing next to Harry, and Harry is grinning cheekily at me. I stick my tongue out at him.

"Come on, otherwise we'll be late. They've set Ollivander up in the Training Centre already..."

Tonks ushers us out of the door, and into the lift.

It seems like all the other Tributes are there already. They glare at us as we walk into the Training Centre.

It's massive, that's my first thought. There are stations for every area of Magic I've heard of, and some I haven't, and there are Muggle areas, too: camouflage, weaponry, hunting, even tying knots!

But of more immediate importance is Ollivander, an old Wizard who seems pale and shrivelled, like a prune. The Ministry appears to have drained the life out of him, his eyes are glassy and uninspired, there's no colour in my cheeks or in his limp white hair.

We're instructed to get into a line, in order of House: boy, girl, boy, girl. I file into line behind Harry, and I take his hand in my own. We're a stark contrast to the other Tributes; all of whom stand as far away from each other as possible, barely making eye contact. Even Ron and Hermione are the same, avoiding each other's eyes by looking at the floor.

But I ignore them. It's time to get my wand.

And I'll admit, I'm a little bit excited.

Let the Games begin.


End file.
